


From Eden

by mageswagger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demons, F/M, Haunted Houses, Minor Violence, Shameless Smut, Some Plot, also dead things, i can't think of anything else if yall need something tagged let me know, um
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageswagger/pseuds/mageswagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isala is a young dalish elf who wanders the Emerald Graves after she was cut loose from her clan, her mage blood making her an unwanted risk. The Emerald Graves are beautiful but deadly, and she thinks it's almost fitting that she should meet an elf such as Abelas within these sacred forests. With night falling and Abelas injured, the duo are pressured to take shelter in the abandoned Chateau d'Onterre - however, once within the Orlesian home, they discover it's not quite as abandoned as it appeared.</p>
<p>Abelas/OC. Originally posted on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wind was beating down on her tent, buffeting the sewn fabric and echoing in her ears, and for a moment Isala feared that should she sleep she would wake with no tent to protect her from the harsh elements. Raindrops smacked hard into the ground, tattooing a beat upon her shelter, and she shuddered under her blanket.

“Curse this weather,” she grumbled under her breath, pulling her blanket closer as she glared at her tents opening.  “All it ever does is rain.”

That wasn’t necessarily true, but it made Isala feel better. The truth was it had only rained the past few days – which was entirely expected of the area. It would probably rain for another day or two, alternating between violent downpours and light drizzles, before the sun would finally rise and she would pack her things and be on her way. She should have considered this before voyaging to the Emerald Graves – she should have known better than to make camp in such an untamed place – but Isala was stubborn and foolish and proud. When she had been exiled from her clan (the burden of any Dalish mage not made the Keeper’s first), she had told herself she would travel well. Her mother had provided what she could, and she had been trained to control her magic. Her father had given her a bow for hunting, though she wasn’t very good with it, and her elder sister had taught her how to tell which fruits were poison or not.

Isala did well enough.  She hadn’t starved yet, and she considered that a victory in and of itself.

Normally, Isala would rest with her halla – and before anyone thought wrongly of her, she hadn’t taken it from her clan. The halla had been found on her trek through the graves, small for its kind but still sturdy. Isala had saved it from a wolf, who had made to attack the grazing creature. The graceful animal had stuck with her ever since, allowing her to use it to carry her wares. At night they would rest against one another, thankful for the shared warmth they could provide, but that was only when they had shelter from the rain. On nights where the tent was necessary, Asha (as Isala had inevitably named them) would find shelter where they could while Isala remained at camp. The halla always returned by morning, and so they would continue travelling as such.

Finally releasing her death grip on her covers, she extended her palms in front of her and let magic pool in the cusp of her hands. A small flame leaped into existence, flickering red and yellow and casting dark shadows on the inner walls of the tent. Heat replaced the chill that had slowly seeped into her home and she closed her eyes, breathing in the warmth. She couldn’t use the heat forever – she would inevitably have to sleep, and burning a fire in a tent unwatched would only bring trouble – but for the moment, the fire was enough to make her forget about the turmoil outside her tents walls.

.

Morning came as always, light filtering in through her tent and casting over her eyes. She made a small noise of protest, throwing her arm across her face to block the light out, but that didn’t keep the morning chill from slipping under her blanket, puncturing the warm cocoon she had built overnight. Shuddering, she finally gave up, tossing her blankets aside and sitting up. Dark hair was piled messily on her head, twisted in knots, and she rubbed blearily at her sleep-heavy eyes.

Another morning, another day. At least now the rain had stopped.

She emerged from her camp, quick fingers combing through her hair (slightly too-greasy for her taste; she would have to find a stream to camp near tonight) and fashioning it into a hastily done braid which hung over her shoulder. It was the longest she’d ever had her hair before.

It didn’t take long for her to collapse her camp, scattering the ashes of her only briefly useful fire pit and snacking on the few berries she’d found to eat. She was hungry, her stomach growling grumpily at her, but she didn’t want to stay too long in this place. She’d already been forced to camp in this part of the woods for three days – she didn’t want to linger any longer.

By the time she had woken completely she had her belongings tucked away inside her pack and Asha had returned to the small site, grazing at dew covered grass. They stood patiently as Isala settled the packs on their back, straightening after she ran an appreciative hand over their coat.

“Come on,” Isala murmured. “Maybe we’ll actually find somewhere nice to camp tonight. Like a cave that isn’t infested with spiders, or bears. Or maybe just a nice outcropping.”

Asha didn’t respond; they just kept trotting alongside the elf as she set a path through the towering forest. Isala had no idea where she was going. She would actually go so far as to say that she never had any idea where she was going (but she would quite plainly ask if anyone ever _truly_ knew where they were headed).  She kept her staff secured to her back, prepared to act in a moments notice, but the longer she walked without incident, the more lax she became. Eventually she was focused almost entirely on her one-sided conversation with the halla, and barely at all on the path she was forging.

The sun was high in the sky now, beating down unrepentantly through the green canopy, and Isala was really wishing she’d taken the time to find a stream that morning. Her hair was gross, she felt sticky, and creators but she couldn’t help but feel like she was starting to smell. Asha didn’t seem offended by her stench, so Isala reasoned that she couldn’t have smelled so terribly, but she also recognized that she was projecting her thoughts onto a speechless creature.

“Creators, I’ve been alone too long,” she murmured under her breath. The halla looked at her, cocking its ears in what she imagined to be resentment, and she reached out to gently pat its neck. “You don’t count, da’len. I’m sure if you could talk to me, you would.”

She hoped, at least. Otherwise, she was just making herself look like an ass. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As they moved through the forest, Isala had her eyes set on a rocky wall ahead of her that became progressively more visible the deeper they went into the forest. She’d been in the area before a few weeks previous, knew vaguely where she was. There was decent cover to be found, though there was a villa too close for Isala to be totally comfortable setting up a semi-permanent camp there. She hadn’t seen any humans enter or leave the villa when she’d passed a little closer, and she had reason to think it was abandoned (most villa’s in the area were), but she didn’t want to venture too close regardless. Not unless it was completely necessary.

The ground nearly tripped her up several times as she moved, her hand automatically reaching to steady herself on Asha, but otherwise she was still making good time towards the outcropping. If luck was on her side she would make it there just before nightfall.

Her heart stopped as a loud, angry roar vibrated through the otherwise still air. It was as if the gods themselves heard her positive thoughts and mocked her for them. Asha bleated anxiously, shifting their hooves and looking jerkily around. Isala ran her hand down the halla’s flank, equally perturbed but unwilling to let it show.  “ _Garas_ , Asha,” she said softly, nudging her forward. “We’re almost to camp. Nothing big can get to us there.”

She took to leading the halla then, hand pressed comfortingly on the back of their neck. They made it a few feet further before another roar, this one louder and more agitated than the last, and Isala cursed as she pulled her staff from her back, turning around and scanning the area. The staff glowed a subtle, pulsing blue, but she made no move to cast. She was too busy trying to think of what she could even do. She was a healer, first and foremost: what was she going to do, pull a thorn from a beasts foot and hope that it left her alone? That was assuming she could get close enough from whatever it was to even attempt that.

The roar sounded again from the left but this time it was accompanied by a very mortal shout, and she gave Asha a stern look. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll…be back. Hopefully.”

Isala didn’t give the halla chance to argue (though it couldn’t anyways) and hurried off towards the sound. She didn’t know who was getting in a fight with (what sounded like) a giant, and she had no idea if the person would even welcome her attempts to help, but she couldn’t simply sit aside and do nothing. She cursed herself under her breath, navigating through the raised roots with familiar ease, and came to a stop at an outcropping of small shrines. Her stomach dropped.

True to her theory, the creature had been a giant. He was large, his head aligned with the height of some of the smaller trees. Its combatant was an elf, clearly wounded if the way he favored one side was any indication. He had no visible weapon, but magic flew from his hands with practiced ease and collided with the giant’s leg. The elf had no armor she recognized, and she could hardly see his face under his hood, but she was quite familiar with the differences between a human’s gait and an elf’s. He was too lithe, to fast, too graceful.

Too injured. “ _Fenedhis_!”

She acted on instinct when she saw the giant swing towards the man, power blasting from her staff and securing him in a protective blue shield. The giant’s fist bounced harmlessly away and served to unbalance the ungainly creature. Whether the man acknowledged her assistance or not she wasn’t sure – he was moving then, pulling a dagger from his belt and slicing into the creatures hamstring with brutal efficiency. The beast toppled to one knee with a roar, swinging blindly, but her shield held firm and the elf took no damage. He seemed to hardly notice anything, in truth, aside from his goal. Isala worried her lip, sending a blast of ice towards the giant’s leg, but the elven mage was already moving. She watched, mouth ajar, as the ground rippled under him, rolling towards him and creating a springboard from which he jumped towards the beast, fingers clinging in the creatures fur as he feet grappled for purchase. He scaled the creature, practically ignoring the way it flailed under his ascent, and swung to straddle the back of the giant’s neck. Isala watched as the dagger came down, digging into the giants eye with brutal precision.

Another roar, this one pained, and the giant twisted violently. The elf held firm, and Isala idly wondered how strong the mage’s thighs had to be to keep purchase while the beast made every effort to dislodge him.

The barrier disappeared as the giant made to grab the elf, and with a shout Isala leaped forward, ice propelling her forward and closing the distance in a blur of white. Ice shot from her staff, encircling the giant’s arm and freezing it before it could reach the elf, and it’s roar of rage turned to one of pain as the elf’s dagger slammed back into its face. It’s fight turned sluggish as the elf struck again, and it’s body began to crumple forward. Isala worried the elf would find himself squashed under the giants weight but quickly realized her concern was unfounded; the elf disengaged quickly and efficiently, landing a small ways away from the giant’s crumpling body.

There was a beat of silence as the fight ended, and Isala dared to breathe again. As soon as she did the elf staggered, gripping his side and falling to one leg. Isala hardly hesitated; she ran forward, skidding to a stop beside him with her staff once again secured on her back.

“Where are you injured?” she asked, glancing up at him. Her throat constricted when she saw his face. His skin was pale, which wasn’t unusual for an elf, but he seemed almost too-pale. High cheekbones and a strong chin, with heavy-lidded eyes that seemed focused on glaring at her.

Glaring? Oh, creators, what had she done now?

“It’s none of your concern,” he said shortly, moving to push himself up only to stumble again. She reached out, supporting his side and ignoring the displeased twist it brought to his otherwise handsome face. _‘Oh, creators, don’t think of him as handsome,’_ she cursed herself. _‘He’s injured. It doesn’t matter if his voice is – no. No, I’m not thinking about it.’_

“You just took down a giant by yourself,” she said.

“Last I saw you were intent on interfering,” he said shortly.

“Last I saw you were well over halfway done by the time I walked up,” she retorted. He was silent, and she sighed. “Look, I’m a healer. Let me take a look at your side.”

“I have no reason to trust you,” he said simply.

“You don’t,” she agreed reasonably. “But I tried to help you before. Can you at least accept that my concern is genuine?”

He still seemed largely displeased, his lips twisted in discontent, but this time he nodded once. She relaxed. “Thank you,” she said. “I can do a little now, but I won’t be able to do much more until we’re somewhere safe. There’s an outcropping to the west just a little ways off that offers some protection. That’s where I was headed before.”

“Is that the only shelter you have?” he asked, looking to her.

Worried that it sounded to unsafe, she hesitantly shook her head. “There – well, I think it’s abandoned, but – there is an abandoned villa to the east, closer than the outcropping. We risk running into raiders, or even Freemen, but the Inquisition moved through the Graves a few weeks earlier. It should be safe enough.”

He was silent for a long moment, a strange expression settling over his features, but he nodded. “We’ll go to the villa,” he agreed.

Isala nodded and moved, letting him use her for support as she looked back towards where she’d come, scanning the line of trees. “What are you looking for?” her new companion demanded, twisting to follow her gaze.

“Asha has my pack,” she explained. She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, a sharp, short sound.

“Asha…?” the man questioned, brows furrowing. A moment later a flash of white moved through the trees, and the halla came cantering towards them. She smiled, reaching out to run her fingers through their fur once they were near enough.

“You realize that halla is male…don’t you?” her companion asked. Isala shook her head, turning towards their path and nudging for him to start moving with her.

“They’ll only respond to Asha,” she said. “So, I call them Asha.” She looked to them then, trying to get a read on their expression and failing miserably. He just looked perpetually displeased. Normally, she didn’t think that was attractive. “What should I call you?”

Silence answered for a long moment as the moved, Isala’s stomach twisting anxiously as she wondered if she would ever get a proper response. Finally, he said in a low voice: “Abelas.”

_Sorrow._ That seemed to fit, somehow. Perhaps it was because he looked so sad. She nodded once. “I’m Isala.”

He made no acknowledgement of her name, and she sighed slightly before pushing onward. He wasn’t too difficult to support, though she had the suspicion that was because he was still bearing most of his weight himself. Asha walked at their sides, attentive to their surroundings, and the closer they drew to the abandoned villa the more Abelas leaned against her and the more anxious the halla became. Isala had to slow her pace, her hand pressing between Abelas’ shoulders. Her side was warm, warmer than it had been before, and she worried her lip anxiously.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said shortly.

“We can stop here so I can look at your side,” she offered.

“No,” his tone was still clipped. “I will be fine.”

Though his voice gave no indication of a lie, she was convinced he was doing just that. Regardless, she silenced herself and kept moving, perhaps a bit faster than before. The sun would be going down within the hour, and she wanted to make it to the villa before then.

After walking for a few more moments Isala felt something damp pressing into her side and she stopped, slipping her hand between them and pulling back to see blood coating her fingertips. Her breath caught and she forced him to stop. “ _Lethallin,_ you’re wound is bleeding,” she said. “Let me-”

“Do not call me that,” he said sharply. Isala withdrew slightly, wide-eyed, her heart stattering at the anger in his tone.  She swallowed.

“I – I’m sorry?” she apologized, unsure. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just – come on, I need to know how bad you’re injured. Please, let me look at it.”

Abelas clenched his jaw, clearly irritated with her needling, but if Isala was anything she was stubborn. She couldn’t let him risk his health any more than he already had. He exhaled sharply and nodded, pulling away from her and working on the clasps of his chestplate. She raised her hand to help and he slapped it away. The slap stung, but it didn’t really hurt beyond that. She kept her hands to herself from then on, watching as he removed his chestplate and lifted the bloodied tunic underneath. Her breath caught when she saw the extent of the wound.

The bruising was the worst of it, by far; it extended over the right half of his ribcage and around his side, venturing down under the waist of his pants. At the center was a jagged cut, raised and painful and slowly bleeding out. She made a small noise of protest.

“You should have told me it was this bad,” she said, stepping forward and letting her hand hover over the wound. “Creators. This should have been treated _immediately.”_

“Then are you going to treat it?” he asked shortly. “Or simply continue to stare?”

She glared up at him then, and the expression seemed to have surprised him. “I would have treated it as soon as we started walking if it weren’t for your stubbornness,” she said. “I’m just trying t help. Don’t be _rude.”_

Abelas was silent then, though he made no move to apologize, and Isala took that as permission to continue. She also counted it as an apology, though she knew she shouldn’t. Her hands glowed faintly, warm and comforting, and she delicately pressed her hands to his side. He flinched under her touch, automatically trying to move away, but she moved with him and let the slow pulse of magic slowly scab the wound over. She knew she couldn’t do as much as she needed – not out in the open like this, and not when they were so close to the villa, but she could keep him from bleeding out.

“That’s enough,” he interrupted her, his fingers tugging her hands away from his side as he let his soiled undershirt drop back into place. “We need to keep moving. It isn’t safe to stay here.”

She sighed, but acknowledged that he was right. “Okay,” she took his chestplate from him, settling it on Asha’s back with the rest of her belongings. “We’ll keep moving.”

He leaned against her again, though more stubbornly then before, and she kept her arm around his waist as they moved more quickly towards the villa. Asha walked silently beside them, ears swiveling about as they trotted over raised roots and wandered slightly ahead of the duo. For a while the halla seemed fine – calm, completely collected – but as they slowly approached the slightly ajar-gate they froze, backing up anxiously and bleating in concern.

“It’s alright, Asha,” Isala said, stepped away from Abelas’ side to approach the halla. “This place is empty, has been for years.”

Asha bleated again, backing away from the gates and Isala gave a sharp exhale. Normally she would trust the halla’s judgement, but the sun was too low to change course for the outcropping, and there was nowhere relatively safe for a nights stay. She sighed, rubbing her temples before nodding. “Alright. Just let me get my pack, you can wait out here,” she said.

“It’s probably wise to trust the halla’s instincts,” Abelas said from behind her. She sighed.

“Normally I would,” she agreed, shouldering her pack and grunting at the added weight. Asha wasted no time in galloping back, further away from the house, but Isala knew without a doubt that the stag would return come morning. She moved back to Abelas and slowly opened the gate, grimacing as it creaked ominously. “Unfortunately, there’s no good cover anywhere we can reach before the sun goes down, and my tent isn’t big enough for two. It’s barely big enough for me.”

He sighed, but Isala ignored him as she stepped into the courtyard. It was ill kept, clearly the result of neglect, but Isala always preferred the untamed beauty of nature to the too-clean version that humans attempted to cultivate. Abelas entered the courtyard after her, moving quickly despite his wounds, and together they moved towards the large entrance. A plaque beside the door gave the villa a name: Chateau d’Onterre.

Isala prayed silently as she tried the handle, hoping it would open, and when it did she gave a soft sigh of relief. The room was dark – too dark – as they stepped in and she shook her head.

“I’ll find a lamp to light,” she murmured. “There has to be rooms here. Maybe even a bath.”

“We are in a mansion,” Abelas said dryly as he followed her, hand gripping his side. “I doubt someone would spend this much and decide _not_ to include one.”

Isala opened her mouth to retort as she stepped into the hall, but any attempt fell short when the sconce opposite her flickered to life. On it’s own. They both suddenly got very quiet.

“You know, we don’t have to explore,” she said, turning and moving back into the entryway immediately, her palm catching his chest to usher him back into the darker room. “Let’s just sit in here. I can see well enough to heal your side.”

“I think your halla had the right idea,” he murmured, glancing towards the hall. “This place is not at rest.”

“Well then, we wont stay long,” she said in a deceptively perky tone. “We’ll settle in here. Can you undress?”

His brow raised sharply at her and she made a frustrated noise. “I can’t heal you with your tunic on,” she reminded him. “I need to see what I’m doing.”

He seemed hesitant, which didn’t come as any sort of surprise at this point, but finally he moved to disrobe. She hated not helping – his face twisted uncomfortably as the movements aggravated his side – but she still remembered the way he had slapped her attempt away. She wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t going to blindly attempt to help when he so clearly would rather she not touch him any more than necessary.

As he pulled the layers of chestware off his hood came with it, and she finally got a truly good look at his face. To her surprise the hood hid a wealth of silvery blond hair, pulled back and secured in place by a leather throng. She hadn’t known what she’d anticipated, but that hadn’t been it. She swallowed, eyes darting from his jaw down his neck – Creators, his neck – and to his chest. And with that, any idle fantasy that might have slipped into her mind disappeared: he was in bad shape. She didn’t resist then, stepping forward and immediately running gently glowing hands over his side. He tensed under her and reached out to support himself against the wall, looking away from her. Disassociating.

Worrying her lip, she pushed any sort of emotional response to that aside. She didn’t expect kindness, or camaraderie, but that didn’t make it any less hurtful. She was just trying to keep him alive.

The bruises faded slowly under her touch, creeping away until only an ugly yellow remained, and the gash looked better with each passing moment. She hesitated before letting her hand hover over his hip where the bruise extended, cheeks flushing slightly. She wasn’t going to ask him to take off his pants – that seemed completely inappropriate.

Fortunately Abelas remained silent as she worked until she pulled her hands away to inspect her job. The skin was still marred and ugly, and she was certain that the gash would leave a scar once it healed, but it wasn’t deadly, and he was in no more danger from it. “Are you injured anywhere else?” she asked.

“No,” he said shortly, straightening and stepping away from her. Isala sighed and turned to her bags, shuffling through for a change of clothes. Her dress now had blood all over the side. She shifted for a while, a frown pulling at her lips as she realized all her spares (a grand total of two) were soiled as well – one was covered in mud, the other had a rip sustained from a nasty trip over some tall roots. She could mend that one, and wash the other, but both would take time. Not to mention she had no idea where water in the villa would be found. In the clearly occupied-possibly-haunted villa… She sighed heavily, pushing her bangs back from her face and grimacing at the greasy texture.

“We’re going to have to find the bath,” she said finally, turning to look at him. He had pulled the bloodied tunic back on, but hadn’t replaced the armor just yet.

“That involves going further into the house,” he told her plainly.

“Your shirt is soiled, all my spares are soiled or ripped, I need to wash my hair, you could probably stand to wash as well,” she listed. “And we can’t just hide in the entryway forever.”

“You literally suggested we do that just ten minutes ago.”

She flushed stubbornly. “Yes. But that was before I thought things through.”

Abelas sighed and straightened, moving to her things and pulling his chestplate from the pile before securing it around himself. She watched as he clipped his armor back into place, pulling his hood back up to obscure his features –and his hair – once again. “You are not traveling by yourself. There is clearly something at work here.”

“A moment a go you seemed quite content to be rid of me,” she reminded him.

“Regardless of my personal feelings, I am in your debt,” he responded shortly. “If we are not leaving the villa, then I will ensure that you will survive it.”

He said the words with finality and Isala couldn’t find her voice to dispute him. Instead she nodded, twisting her fingers in the loose fabric of her dress. She was entirely unsure what to think of this man – of Abelas – but she knew that, so long as they were allies, he would be good company to have. She still remembered how he took down that giant. That fight would have killed most anyone else. She doubted it would have killed him even had she not arrived – he was barely phased by the wound he had sustained. She had no doubt that her presence was simply a perk, one that helped him heal faster and cleaner but one that did not necessarily ensure his survival.

It would take a lot to make her admit that to him, however. He was capable of surviving on his own – on surviving and fighting – but she was a wandered. She avoided fights. This villa was clearly uneasy, and she knew she would need him if she anticipated surviving whatever happened here.

“Let us go, then,” he said. “Gather whatever you need to wash.”

“I can wash your shirt while I’m at it,” she offered as she grabbed her pack, not feeling completely comfortable with the idea of leaving anything behind. “I might not get all the blood out, but, it’ll help.”

He didn’t respond even as she approached him, belongings in hand. He simply moved, leading her into the hallway – still only lit by a single light, a portrait glowing eerily behind it – and hesitating only slightly before turning to the left. Lights blossomed on the walls as they moved until two stands illuminated a door. Papers were strewn in front of it, but before she had a thought to gather them up Abelas had already opened the door and moved deeper into the house. Isala followed, nearly tripping on the abandoned pages, and almost ran into Abelas’ back.

“What – oh.”

She swallowed. There, to her left, were two bodies. Abelas approached them without concern, examining them closely. “Looters,” he identified them.

“Perhaps we should have gone to the outcropping anyway,” Isala said hesitantly. Abelas shook his head and straightened, saying nothing as he continued onward. Isala muffled a shriek as the fireplace roared to life, stepping even closer to her companion. “Alright. Definitely should have gone to the outcropping.”

Abelas was setting a course upstairs, ignoring her quite contentedly, and Isala fought back an exasperated sigh. Of course he was ignoring her. She should have expected as much. He made no effort to converse whatsoever, apart from any sort of conversation she initiated. And even then, he only chose to respond as he saw fit. It was irritating, to say the least.

Irritation left her once the duo reached the top of the steps, the sconces lighting to reveal a long hallway stretched before them flanked with an impressive amount of books. She exhaled slowly, looking around as Abelas seemed largely uninterested, moving forward with singular purpose. They reached the end of the hall and saw it was a dead end, several more looters bodies strewn about. She sighed, again pushing her bangs from her face. “Creators. This was a horrible idea.”

“Agreed.”

She glared at the back of his head as the retreated, only for Abelas to catch the back of her shirt and navigate her down a door they had passed unnoticed. Isala made a small noise of protest at the man-handling, but he released her and continued moving as if nothing had happened. The first door they came to led to a bedroom with an ornate – well, everything. Isala had never seen something quite so lavish, even if it was worn down with age and dust. However, she was excited – bedrooms meant that a bath should be close. The next room was a study and bedroom combined, even more ostentatious than the last, and though she wanted to explore that room further Abelas had already hooked his hand in her dress and tugged her back out.

Finally the struck luck with the last door, tucked away at the end of the hall; there was a large mirror above a vanity, and on the far end was a bath. The bucket that had no doubt been used to draw water sat abandoned on the floor. Abelas nodded. “You have your bath,” he said, moving forward until he stood at the tubs edge. He waved his hand, that same ancient magic she had seen from earlier acting to slowly fill the tub with water. The scent was immediate and refreshing and she closed her eyes, savoring it.

“I will stand guard outside,” he said. “Don’t take long.”

“What about your shirt?” she asked. “It’s soiled. It can’t be comfortable.”

He sighed, long and suffering. “I will tend to it once you are done,” he said. “If you are capable of guarding me while I work.”

She nodded slowly. She figured she was quite ‘capable’ of that, at the least. “Alright. Thank you.”

Abelas shook his head. “Bathe. We shouldn’t linger.”

He left then, turning and stepping outside into the hall, crossing his arms over his chest as he went. Isala sighed, closing her eyes and looking to the ceiling for a long moment. Finally she moved forward, stripping down before submerging herself in the warm water. She would have to thank him for this. She worked carefully and quickly, undoing her braid before ducking under the water and letting the oils that had gathered in her hair wash away. She reached over the tub to her satchel, pulling out the handmade soaps she had and quickly lathering herself up, eager to rid herself of the dirt and grease that had clung to her on her travels. Once she was scrubbed clean she emerged, the cool air of the villa sending goosebumps over her pale flesh, and she wasted little time in lifting her clothes to submerge them in the only slightly cloudy water. By the time she had finished scrubbing her two dresses clean the water was filthy, dark and useless for much at all, and she was left with no clothes to change into but the old tunic she wore to sleep. She pulled that on, her body mostly dry but for her hands and hair, and wished that it didn’t fit quite so snugly. She used the throng used to keep her braid in place to pile her hair in a knot on the top of her head, mostly to keep her tunic dry. She hung her dresses up to dry, making a mental note to grab them later, and then turned to exit the bath.

Abelas stood, his back to the door, and hardly paid her any mind as she emerged. She swallowed, tucking a slick strand of hair behind her ear. “The water is all muddy now,” she said, “but, if you want, I’m done. I can keep watch while you’re in there.”

He looked to her and his eyes stilled for a long moment, focused on her outfit – or lack of outfit – before darting down to her legs and then back to her face. There was an awkward moment of silence between them before he twisted on his feet and disappeared into the bath, closing the door behind him. Isala sighed, running her hand over her face before turning her attention to the hallway. It was dark save for the flickering lights, and creepy, but it was also quiet. No signs of whatever had killed those looters anywhere.

She shivered, running her palms over her arms. She missed her dress. Though not entirely covering – it revealed her collar and arms, along with much of her legs – it was of a hefty material, and actually met the top of her boots. The tunic was thin and did not reach so low. She twisted her fingers in the fabric as she waited, scanning the hall for any sign of other trespassers. That would be just her luck to have someone wander up now, when the most powerful of the two companions was vulnerable and she, the healer with little practical knowledge of offensive magic, was keeping guard.

Though the fact that he trusted her not to turn at him was heartwarming, in a way.  Though she wasn’t very threatening to begin with. What could she do, whack him with her staff? For as skilled as he seemed, that was probably one of the most effective things she could do against him.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned against the door and rested her head against the smooth finish, worrying her lip slightly between her teeth. She didn’t like this villa – this Chateau d’Onterre – and she didn’t want to spend the night here, but she was reasonably certain whatever was going on within the many walls was safer than the creatures that roamed about at night. Besides: Abelas needed to let his wound rest, at least for a while longer. Healing magic could only do so much, and if the patient refused to let the wounds heal then it would worsen just as quickly as she had mended it.

The longer she thought about the bruising on his chest, the more her mind wandered, and her cheeks flushed pink as she thought about his chest beyond the wounds. He was very fit – especially so for an elf – and he was taller than she came to expect of elves as well. Certainly taller than her. And his legs –

Her cheeks turned red and she turned her gaze to her hands, which she twisted together as her mind wandered. Should she be thinking about him like that? No. Not at all. But she remembered the way he’d clung to the giant’s neck with his thighs alone, very clearly remembered the way his armor clung to them, and creators, but she couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like in that tub.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she cursed softly, running her hand over her face as she tried to calm her racing heart. She shouldn’t be thinking of that – she should be focused on the hallway. The hallway that was part of a creepy villa filled with dead looters.

Except her mind was already gone and she leaned more fully against the door, eyes clouding over slightly as she allowed herself to indulge. Fantasy never harmed anyone, so long as she kept it from leaving her mind.

She hadn’t seen him without his pants, but they were skin-tight. She didn’t have to in order to imagine him. His face and torso was pale, but not the sort of pale that came from nature – it was a pale that came from spending too long out of the sun. How tan would he get in the sun? Not very.

Creators, even in her fantasies her mind wandered. She refocused herself – his legs. They were strong, and she wondered how they would feel pressed against her own. His hands were long, fingers thin and deft, and she was willing to bet he had a firm grip. She wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on her hips, holding tight enough to bruise. Or would he be softer? Perhaps a blend of the two – soft lips running reverently down her spine as hands gripped her like chains, dragging down her thighs as his hips piston into hers, her upper body pressed into the ground (or a mattress? No, the floor, hard against her cheek as her fingers scrabbled for purchase on an otherwise smooth surface, nails biting into the flooring as she arched desperately, moaning).

Her fingertips drifted gently against her thigh, her teeth clamping even harder on her lip, and she wondered how much longer he would be in the bath. Long enough for her to slip her hand between her legs? Did it matter? What would he do if he exited and found her like this, flushed and hot with hand pressed desperately between her thighs, fingers plunging into her heat as she worked herself over the edge to the thought of him-

The door opened at her back and she lost her support, her arms flailing to grab at the frame as she fell backwards into a solid chest.  Hands – the ones she had just been thinking about, _fenedhis_ – gripped her under her arms and steadied her, as firm as she might have imagined them and creators, why had she let her mind wander at all?

“Were you sleeping?” he asked as she looked up at him, wide eyed and face burning.

“No!” she protested immediately. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she got the notion that he didn’t believe her in the slightest. Truly, that was preferably to him knowing what she was thinking, what she was considering doing – oh, creators, why did she let her mind wander?

He pushed her back onto her feet, hand at her shoulder to make sure she was steadied before pulling back. She was burning up all over, still flustered from her vivid imaginings, and she pressed her hair back from her face as she finally forced herself to look at him. He was in his trousers again, which he must not have cleaned if it were already dry – or did his foreign magic extend to that as well? – and he had her dresses in the other hand. His hair was loose, no longer held back in place, and she realized it was longer than hers.

“Go towards the first bedroom,” he ordered. Her jaw clicked shut.

“What?” she asked, blinking incredulously at him.

Abelas sighed heavily. “The second room has a body on the bed,” he said. “The first is clear, and relatively clean. If we are spending the night in this place, it is best to do it there. We can barricade the door for added protection, should anything wander too close. The window is facing the east, so when the sun rises it will wake us if we have not already woken before then. It is also close to the exit.”

Clearly he had been thinking about this while he bathed. She flushed, this time feeling absolutely useless, and nodded. They moved back into the bedroom quietly, and though she didn’t ask him to, after closing the door Abelas carefully hung her dresses to dry. She couldn’t watch him for long though – not with the way his back shifted with his every movement. She turned her attention instead to the room, giving it a more thorough look than she had before. It was largely decorated in blues and greys, and the floors and walls were made almost entirely of marble. It was cold to the touch at matched the diamond shaped pattern throughout the villa. The room was divided into two sections, one perched on a slightly elevated platform and fenced at the edges with low marble railing. On the lower half of the room was what looked to be a study – there was a small armoir that she had nearly run into entering and leaving the room, and next that that there was a fireplace. Next to that was a set of bookshelves pressed into the corner wall, and a backless couch strewn with scrolls sat next to that. The raised level started then, and directly across from the roaring fire was a large bed draped in grey and mounted in an ostentatiously carved frame, gold inlay decorating the very Orlesian curves. Under a window was a small desk, one that barely came to her waist, and in the corner of the room was a slightly more ornate writing desk with a book spread open and papers shoved in the cubby holes.

A note on the smallest desk caught her eye, and curiosity bid her to read it:

_Ma Chére Colette,_

_I am very sorry, but we must depart sooner than anticipated. Night terrors seized my husband; he will not remain a moment longer. Honestly, I don’t know what he’s thinking, rushing us out of here so rudely…_

Isala didn’t finish reading the note – she looked ahead of her, considering what that meant. She turned and spotted Abelas, standing opposite her across the bed and looking idly at the armoire settled there. “Abelas?” she said softly, extending her arm. “Read this.”

He moved towards her, taking the note from her hand and reading it quickly. He frowned. “This doesn’t bode well for us,” he said finally. He looked to her. “We wont sleep easy tonight.”

She wasn’t certain that she was going to do that anyway, even before she read the letter. She bit down hard on her lip, running her hand over her eyes. “Creators. This was a horrible idea.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “We will be careful.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head and murmuring under her breath as she moved past him and towards the armoire. It was taking effort not to mock him under her breath, but she succeeded. She heard his footsteps as he moved across the room, exploring the other half, and Isala took her time fishing through the armoire and the scattered belongings left there. She pulled out a pair of black leggings and consulted them for a moment. She could put them on. It’d make it less cold, and she would feel less exposed. Both sounded ideal.

Then again, they weren’t hers, and she didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of wearing a dead persons clothes. Assuming they were dead, of course, but based on the bodies…

Shoving the clothes back into the drawer, she sighed and closed the dresser, turning back and inspecting the bed. She didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on it. But, to her slight relief, she was fairly certain this had been a guest room. So it was fine if she slept here – there were no bodies, that assumed no one had died here – and she would be fine. Totally and completely fine.


	2. Chapter 2

An hour passed. Abelas seemed averse to the idea of relaxing while, after a moments exploration, Isala resigned herself to a spot on the bed. They were largely silent, each focusing on their thoughts, and finally she broke and yawned, covering her mouth as she did.

“You should rest,” Abelas said from where he stood in front of the fireplace. “The longer you sleep, the sooner we will leave.”

“I’m not tired,” she argued, shaking her head even as she perched hesitantly on the edge of the bed. “And what about you?”

“I will rest later,” he said.

“Well then what was the point of barricading the door?” she asked. “If anything tries to get in, we’ll know.”

“That is not a guarantee,” he responded shortly. “We are not safe in this house. I will not be resting long.”

Dissatisfied, she pursed her lips. She knew he made sense, but that didn’t change the fact that he was still healing. Rest was important to that. She needed him to rest for his own sake, but he was too stubborn to do it. “You are very irritating, you realize that?” she snapped.

His brows raised as they stared at each other for an extended moment. When he said nothing more, she elaborated: “You’re still injured. You may not want to admit it, but you need to rest, otherwise your side is just going to get worse. I may not be worth much offensively, but I can stay up and keep watch while you rest. If something happens, I’ll wake you up. I promise.”

“And you expect me to trust you so much?” he asked, eyes narrowed. She bristled irritably.

“You’re asking the same of me,” she said. “So yes. I do.”

Finally, it seemed her words made some sort of impact. He slumped ever so slightly, raising his fingertips to his eyes and pressing carefully. She sucked her lip into her mouth, worrying she might have upset him, but finally he shook his head.

“I apologize,” he finally said. “You are right. I should be more patient. _Ir abelas.”_

Isala swallowed, watching him as he turned his attention to the door. The silence was almost claustrophobic, and she wanted to speak, but she didn’t know what to say. Nothing seemed adequate enough. Despite the fact that her mind had no problems fantasizing about him, she didn’t think she would ever act on them. Or that she would ever be in a position where she could feasibly act on them. How could she when she couldn’t even speak to him?

“Why aren’t you with your clan?”

Taken aback, Isala looked up to him. He hadn’t moved, and he wasn’t looking at her (so she couldn’t see his expression) but he had definitely spoken. And it was definitely a question aimed at her.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said. “Though I assumed it was because we were both mages.”

He turned to look at her, brows furrowed slightly. She swallowed. Did he not…understand where she was going with that? He was definitely a mage – despite his clear skills with physical battles (she remembered the fight with the giant quite vividly) he had manipulated nature with an ease she’d never encountered before. It was not normal magic, but it was magic. What was going on? She progressed hesitantly, explaining: “The Alerion clan already has enough mages. With the war, we’re unable to meet up and trade, and with templars killing any mage in sight…it was safest for the clan if they let me go.”

“Your clan abandoned you in the middle of a war?” he demanded, and she got the notion that her answer had been the wrong one. Even if it was the only one.

“It’s not unusual,” she said. “To encourage some mages to leave, that is. It’s to keep the clan safe.”

“And what of the ones they leave behind?” he asked. “Do they expect you to survive on your own?”

“Well I have, haven’t I?” she said defensively. “I’ve avoided templars for months. I’ve obviously not died. It’s not so bad.”

No matter what she said, he didn’t seem appeased. He was scowling, glaring at the door and refusing to look at her. Was he angry with her? Why? She’d just answered his questions. She swallowed, the urge to defend her clan too hard to ignore. “What about you? Did the same thing not happen?”

“My clan is dead,” he said shortly. She waited, thinking he might elaborate, but he offered her nothing. As usual.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” she said softly, twisting her fingers together. “You could find a new clan? You’re very skilled. Many would welcome you.”

“I want nothing to do with the Dalish,” he said sharply. “They are not my people. My people are dead.”

That made no sense. He made no sense, and Isala was scared of pressing to insistently. Though he was angry, she could only imagine that pain came from sadness. How could he not mourn his clan? They obviously had not abandoned him, and the bonds between clansmen were stronger than ironbark. They were everything. Even now, alone as she was, Isala would mourn for the rest of her life if she learned that something had happened. They were always her family, not matter how distant they were.

“How long?” she asked softly. He glanced sharply at her and the heat of his gaze nearly silenced her, but she continued stubbornly: “How long have you been alone?”

Abelas stared at her, and she wasn’t sure he would answer. When he did, his voice was bland, factual, as if they were talking about the weather, and were it not for what she knew of him – for what she saw whenever she looked at him – she would have thought him heartless. “Three weeks.”

“Creators,” she breathed. Whatever answer she had expected…that wasn’t it. That was hardly a month. She had been alone longer than he had, and she still felt the ache of their absence with every breath she took. How was he standing? How was he so strong? “ _Ir abelas.”_

“ _Tel’abelas_ ,” he said shortly. “They died with honor. They fulfilled their duties. That is enough.”

Silence followed as Isala tried and failed to come up with a response. What could she say to that? She was left again, feeling stupid for being unable to understand, but how could she have? He gave her nothing. He told her nothing. She knew _nothing._ It was impossible for her to understand him no matter how hard she tried, and any logical person would give up, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Not when she wanted so desperately to understand.

To her great surprise it was Abelas who broke this silence, his shoulders slumping and his face turning towards her. He still didn’t look at her, but it was as close to physical acknowledgement as she ever thought he would give her: “ _Ir abelas._ I should not speak so harshly to you. It is not you I am mad at.”

“It’s fine,” she said, and she meant it. “I’m not upset.”

Though he looked as if he had tried to relax, his shoulders were still stiff and his neck tense. She frowned, fingers twisting in the hem of her tunic, before venturing: “Are you alright?” she asked.

He glanced to her, golden eyes softer than they had been all day. “I am fine. It’s just a headache.”

Worrying her lip for a moment she sighed before moving back further onto the bed, tucking her legs under her. “Come here,” she said. “I can help with that.”

At first she thought he would refuse, but he relented after a moments hesitation. He moved to the bed, sitting uncomfortably on the edge, and she rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said. “Put your head in my lap. I promise I wont bite.”

Though she wouldn’t mind if he did.

Her cheeks flushed once more as he obliged, her own thoughts betraying her. Creators. Why had she thought that? Why had she ever considered that? Now the thought wasn’t leaving her head. She forced her heart to steady as he hesitantly lay on the bed, his head coming to rest on the swell of her thighs. She carefully pushed the loose strands of his hair behind his ears before pressing the pads of her fingers against his temples. He was surprisingly warm. When she was healing his side she hadn’t paid it much mind, concentrated as she was, but now she recognizing the heat radiating off of him. For some reason she thought he would be cool to the touch; maybe that was just because of his personality.

Even that wasn’t right though. He wasn’t cold. That was her being childish; no, Isala had decided that despite his harshness, if he had to be either fire or ice, then he would be fire. There was a constant heat to his words, even those he said with perfect stoicism. He had a temper, one that showed clearly whenever she said something that caught his ire (which was not as often as she felt, though it had happened several times). He was not cold or detached or unfeeling. He was the opposite. He was just better at controlling it than she was.

The gentle blue of healing energy surrounded her fingers and she let out a small, peaceful sigh as the energy left her and slid into him. He was still tense against her, but as her fingers lingered that tension slowly sank out of his body until he was completely relaxed against her, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. A small sliver of pride settled across her face in a smile as she watched him.

Absentmindedly, she began slowly tracing her fingers along his face, gently trailing the curve of his cheeks, high and shallow, as her thumbs caressed his temples soothingly. He really was handsome.

The longer he reclined in her lap, the warmer her body got, and though she was reacting quite eagerly to his presence she kept her thoughts under a tight lid. This was about healing – not about sex. No matter how much she could admit to herself that she wanted him (and Creators, but she did), there were lines that, as a healer, she was uncomfortable crossing.

Finally she let her magic slowly fade away, even as her touch lingered, and she watched him with a soft expression as her thumbs gently traced over the sharp angles of his face. His eyes opened, dark molten gold, and met hers. She smiled kindly. “Better?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “ _Ma serannas_.”

“You’re the fighter here,” she said wryly, letting her hands fall to rest on her thighs. “My survival counts on your health, doesn’t it?”

His lips quirked slightly into a smile that was only barely there, but the sight of it had her stomach squirming. “It does,” he agreed. “But you have my thanks nonetheless.”

She just smiled and gently ran her fingertips through the hair that had slipped from his twist. His eyes closed again under the touch, body relaxed into the mattress, and she took that as permission. Careful fingers undid the knot on his head, letting damp silvery strands spill over her thighs, and she hummed softly as she carefully ran her fingers through his hair. She didn’t know how long they sat there, slowly petting him, but eventually she noticed that he had drifted off. She wasn’t certain he was asleep, but she felt that was a safe assumption. Even still she continued playing with his hair, braiding it with some difficulty (given the angle) and draping it over one shoulder, as she often wore hers.

Done with his hair she turned her attention to his chest – specifically, to the still sickly looking bruise that lingered there. She frowned, reaching out to carefully run her fingertips over the marks. He tensed under her and she immediately softened her touch, letting her magic spread over the mark once more.  His hand moved, catching her wrist tightly in his, and her body froze.

“You’re wasting your energy,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t.”

“It looks painful,” she protested, sitting up to meet his gaze. “I thought I could heal it more.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her as he released her wrist, his hand dropping to rest against his chest. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re under my care,” she said with a smile, wry and teasing. “It’s my job to worry.”

“And it is my job to protect,” he countered. It was the most about himself he had revealed, apart from his name. “Let me worry about that.”

She softened, watching him as his eyes closed again, and this time when she touched him it was to gently trace her fingers along the vallaslin branching across his forehead. She recognized the shapes as the mark of Mythal, though she didn’t have them herself. Her mother had, however, so the fracturing branches were familiar.

“Are you always so tactile?” he asked, brow quirking under her fingertips, and her face heated as she pulled her hand away.

“Sorry,” she apologized.

He looked up at her, eyes scanning over her face. “Your vallaslin suits you,” he said, though there was an undertone to his voice that told her it was a compliment he was not comfortable giving. “You have many similarities with Sylaise.”

She raised a brow. He spoke as if he knew the goddess personally. “We are healers,” she agreed. “But I do not see much beyond that.”

They were silent again and he was observing her intently before finally looking away, letting his attention focus on the room around them. It was still – almost too still – but there was no sign of malignant energy yet. Distracted as Isala was, she was also sensitive to magic. When things started happening – if things started happening – she would know. She assumed he would as well. His magic was unlike any she had ever seen, and that alone brought up a lot of questions, but she was unsure whether or not she had the right to ask him any of them.

She continued watching him, though she kept her hands to herself this time. Even now he looked sad. Sorrowful. There was a permanent downturn to his lips, a pout that (were it not so sad) could easily draw the focus of any interested party. Her heart ached slightly – how much sorrow did one have to see for it to reflect so permanently on their face? Her hand lifted, gently pressing to his cheek as her thumb traced over his skin. “ _Ir abelas.”_

He looked up at her in confusion. “Why?”

Anxiety had her pursing her lips, and she murmured: “I’m sorry that you are sad. Were I able, I would try to help.”

He looked at her then, his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, but what happened next she could not have predicted.

Fingers wound into the strands of her hair as he reached for her, tugging her face down and pressing her lips to his. Her breath stuttered in her chest at the heat of him, her eyelids fluttering as he leisurely opened his mouth against hers. It felt – she didn’t know if she could find a word. It was soft and warm and so much kinder than she would have imagined his lips to be. A small sound flitted between her lips as she responded, her hands curling around his face as she gently sucked his lower lip into her mouth. The position was strange, and kissing him upside down almost felt silly, but the way his fingers held her in place paired with the slowly building desperation of his lips had heat spreading through her in a familiar way. This was not how she had meant for this night to happen – this hadn’t been her goal when she asked him to lay on the bed, but Creators, could she really complain?

Slowly, Abelas sat up, their lips parting only so he could kiss her properly, his nose tucked next to hers instead of pressing to her chin. Her hands slid into his hair, twisting there and holding him to her as his hands dropped to her waist. He tugged her down, a small grunt leaving her as her back hit the mattress, and he laid out beside her. This was more comfortable, she could acknowledge that easily, and so she didn’t complain. His hands were chaste, resting over her tunic though it would take little effort to slip them down against her bare thighs, to run them under and up to her chest or down to her core. The very idea had her blushing, pink coating her cheeks and chest, and he just kept kissing her.  His lips were soft and warm and full, and she yielded to them.

Why was he kissing her, though? What had she done? Had she missed some sort of clue? She had never been extremely gifted in terms of advances, romantic or otherwise, but she was certain that there had been none.

Hesitation settled in her and she slipped her hand down to press lightly to his chest, gently nudging him away. Their lips parted and she looked up at him through her lashes, trying to steady her heart. “As much as I’m enjoying this,” she said, “Where did this come from?”

He pulled away and she started to regret even saying anything. Those had been nice kisses. She didn’t want to sit in awkward silence – and she was certain that was what would happen.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he murmured. He sat beside her silently, offering no explanation, and awkwardness settled in her throat. She looked to her fingers, picking at her nails as time crept by like a snail for agonizing moments, until finally her patience snapped. She moved, straddling his lap in a slightly clumsy movement and pressing her lips back to his, fingers curling anxiously against his chest. His hands met her waist and hauled her against him as he kissed her, dragging his teeth across her lips and rending a small moan from her throat.

There was heat behind this kiss that had been missing before, simmering under the surface and tightening a coil low in her womb. Creators, but he was a good kisser. His hand drifted up, pressing between her shoulder blades as the other cupped her thigh, skin to skin. Hands slipped down his chest, pressing to his abdomen and curiously tracing the smooth lines that defined him.

Passion quickly blurred her senses as his tongue pressed beseechingly to her lips, her mouth parting automatically. Tongues vied for control, sliding against each other, and she only presented a token fight. She was more than willing to yield to his touch – more than eager for it. His fingers pressed hard against her back, slowly dragging down her spine to her backside. He met with the end of her tunic and slipped his hand under, flesh to flesh and so close but so far from where she ached the most.

Mewling and desperate, she rocked her hips encouragingly, trying to coax his hand between her thighs and gasping when the motion provided a blessed friction. He gripped her harder, fingers moments away from leaving purple bruises on her pale skin, and the moan he pulled from her was almost embarrassing. Her hips rocked again, her nails dragging across his shoulders and leaving thin raised welts in their wake. This time he reciprocated, bucking his hips up against her, and she nearly cried at the sharp relief the touch brought. It faded almost as soon as it had come though, leaving an even stronger ache behind, and by then her body had taken the control.

Hips rocking against his, she bit down on his lip, dragging it between sharp teeth and savoring the small growl he offered her. His grip on her backside tightened, demanding and rewarding all at once. His hand moved up her tunic, over the curve of her stomach to cup her breast in hand, his thumb wasting no time in circling and teasing her nipple in time with the rocking of her hips.

Creators, if he kept touching her like this, she would make a fool of herself right in his lap. Was this really all it took? Abelas seemed completely in control, even behind the roughness of his kiss and the bruising nature of his touch. Everything was calculated and planned and here she sat, running almost purely on instinct. “Abelas,” she breathed as their lips parted, his mouth dropping to her neck with clear purpose.

Teeth bit down on her pulse, tearing a moan from her as her hands leapt to twist in his hair. She pulled, arching into him as her hips moved more insistently, and in response he bit harder, laving his tongue over the marks before sucking there. There was no question that he would leave a mark – several marks.

Isala whimpered desperately as his thumb dragged over her nipple, his hand moving from her bottom to the small of her back and pressing encouragingly, forcing her hips as close to his as they could be. As if he wasn’t already overwhelming her with sensation, he rocked his hips up against her. The length of him pressed against her, restrained only by the thin material of his leggings, and she almost sobbed. “Abelas, _please.”_

His hands didn’t move from their places on her body, and he offered her no more than what he had been, and it wasn’t enough. It was torturous. Desire ran rampant through her blood, driving her to roll her hips more demandingly, to whimper and moan and plead, and she wondered what kind of sadistic man he had to be to enjoy torturing her like this.

In the back of her mind, Isala acknowledged that this was a kind of sadistic that she could enjoy.

Finally his mouth moved, laving open-mouth kisses across her collar and down the vee of her shirt, before darting to replace his hand at her breast. Even over her tunic the heat of his mouth was bliss, the slide of his tongue over her nipple making her cry out with another desperate jerk of her hips. His hands gripped her backside, firm and controlling as he slowly adjusted them until he was kneeling on the bed. His hands slid down to her thighs, coaxing her legs to hook around his hips, and then he finally began to move. His hips rocked steadily against hers, consistent friction to replace the erratic brushes she had managed before. His lips suctioned around her nipple and her head fell back with a loud moan as her nails dragged over his shoulders.

Heart thundering in her chest, drumming in her ears in a relentless beat, body quivering under his touch; he played her with skill that took her off guard. She was panting in his lap, pressing her breast against his lips as her hips rolled with his. The coil in her womb was tightening painfully, warming her body through, and she was so close she felt tears bite at the corner of her eyes. Creators, he wasn’t even inside of her. How would that feel? How could she possibly survive that once she found out?

“Abelas,” she pleaded desperately, “Abelas, please. _Ar nuvenin ma.”_

 _“Hamin,”_ he murmured – the first sound to come from him since they started. His mouth pulled from her breast to kiss her neck. _“Ar nuvenin tu garas ma.”_

His voice was a drug – she was certain that she could never hear him speak without having her knees turn to jelly. “ _Ir!”_ she cried brokenly, searching for words and unable to find them as her mind lost itself. _“Isala ir sahlin!”_

_“Ma nuvenin.”_

His hand slipped to press low on her stomach, adding pressure as he rocked his hips more quickly, each movement leaving dragging pressure on her clit. Her breath was choppy, desperate, and she felt impossibly needy.

Then his hand slipped lower, his thumb circling her clit teasingly, and that was all it took. She cried out, his name spilling from her like a prayer as bliss blasted through her, stealing her mind and leaving her only with her pleasure. Her mind drifted for a long moment, her eyes heavy, and when she finally became more aware of herself she realized she was curled against him, arms twisted around his shoulders and holding him tightly to her. “Abelas,” she breathed, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. His hands were at her hips, over her tunic and chaste, and though she was still pressed against him his hips had stilled. She could feel his need against her, and despite that he made no move to relieve it. She swallowed.

“ _Serannas, lethallin_ ,” she breathed. This time, he did not berate her for the name. “Let me help you.”

She slid back from him, glancing down at his trousers and flushing as she realized they would have to be washed. His hands settled on her thighs, his eyes staring into hers as she worried her swollen lip between her teeth. She quickly undid the laces of his leggings, tugging them down and taking his length in hand. His breath hitched as she slowly pumped her hand, her eyes glued to his face as she touched him.

It was disconcerting, how attentively he was watching her. Had he watched her like that before? She couldn’t remember. The thought had her blushing.

Abelas kept remarkably still as she touched him, the only sign of his pleasure found in the small gasps that left barely parted lips. She leaned in, gently taking his lips with hers as she slid her thumb over the tip of him. His eyes drifted shut as he leisurely kissed her, and his hips finally pressed up into her hand. She tightened her grip slightly, carefully, her speed increasing as she worked to bring him to the edge. She let her lips slip along his jaw, nipping a path from there to his ear. When her lips traced the edge of the sensitive cartilage he moaned, low and long, and his hips gave a needy thrust. She didn’t relent, focusing divided attention on the tip of his ear and his length, and as she gave a careful squeeze around him he came…all over her tunic.

“Shit,” she breathed, pulling back and holding her tunic away from her. She swallowed, glancing up at him. “We didn’t think this through.”

Abelas raised a brow, and though he was disheveled and breathing quickly he still looked remarkably calm. How did he do that? “Weren’t there clothes in the dresser?” he asked, nodding.

“Leggings,” she agreed. “That will help you. Not me.”

Creators, she was blushing like a child. This wasn’t her first time, but nothing was more awkward to her than the after. Especially when for all she enjoyed this – enjoyed him – she knew the likelihood of this ever turning into more was slim. What was she supposed to say?

Abelas pulled away from the bed as she sat with her own anxiety, moving towards the dresser and going throw the drawers on his own. She probably should have looked away when he began removing his trousers – simply out of politeness – but her mind went completely silent as he changed. He was very…firm. Creators, she was going to be caught staring. She averted her eyes quickly down to her tunic as he turned.

“Here,” he said, and she looked up as he offered her a shirt. It was massive – clearly made for a human – and she took it with a small smile.

“Ma serannas,” she said. She waited until he looked away, going back to his investigation, before quickly tossing her soiled tunic aside and pulling the thicker one on. It was maybe silly, considering he had just had his hand between her legs, but she’d been dressed. He didn’t see much of anything. Isala had the build of a dwarven women, and while she thought they were gorgeous she was an elf. She wasn’t supposed to have that sort of figure. The standard was thin and willowy. Abelas lived up to every elven standard of beauty, even if he was a bit taller than usual, and she felt completely inadequate next to that. Who wouldn’t?

She felt safer in this tunic, which fell to her knees, and she didn’t hesitate to curl up on the bed with her head on the pillow. A ridiculously soft pillow. Who needed a pillow this soft?

…Maybe she would take one when she left. Just one.

Abelas moved around for a moment longer before finally returning to the bed, perching beside her. “You should sleep, _lethallan_ ,” he said. The endearment, though basic, eased her nerves slightly. “I will keep watch.”

“Alright,” she agreed softly, twisting her fingers in the blankets and refusing to slip under them. It was too warm as it was. “ _Dareth enera_.”

“ _Dareth enera_ ,” he echoed.

She closed her eyes, pressing her face into the pillow, and was asleep within moments.

…

_Her arms were bound._

_It was the first thing she became aware of, the scenery dark and drifting, inconsistent and maddening, but that was constant. She moved – or she thought she moved – and her arms refused to cooperate. She must be bound, then, if she couldn’t move her arms._

_Really, she was only aware of her torso. Her legs, clearly laid out in front of her, felt as solid as air. She could move those though, even if she couldn’t comprehend the brush of ground against her skin as she did._

_From the darkness came a pale hand, familiar now as it slowly traced up her ankle. She immediately relaxed as she recognized the elf who appeared: Abelas. He seemed completely focused on her, his hands tracing her calves as he pressed soft kisses along the side of her legs, up to her thighs. Her body warmed slightly._

_“Abelas?” she asked._

_He responded – she saw his lips move, heard his voice – but she didn’t understand. It didn’t bother her as much as it perhaps should, and he continued trailing featherlight kisses up her thighs. Eventually his hands pushed her tunic over her hips and his lips pressed to the core of her, dragging his tongue over her and rending a cry from her lips._

_She couldn’t quite follow his actions – all she knew was the sensations they wrought, the pleasure burning in her womb as she rolled and ached under him, desperate for more that never seemed to come._

_Then the scene changed. She was in a forest, dressed in armor that wasn’t hers, and though the memory of his mouth still burned at her flesh she knew that it had been long ago. This was different. Was this even her? That strange disconnect between mind and body followed and she wasn’t sure what to think. She moved soundlessly through the forest, only to realize that the rocks she thought were natural were carved walls, and she was walking on dirt-covered stone. Was this a temple, overgrown and dilapidated from the passing of time?_

_The stone quaked under her, upsetting her feet and sending her tumbling to the floor. As she did the ground tore in on itself, sinking and splitting and leaving her clawing at an edge, clawed gauntlets desperate for purchase and finding none._

_Pale fingers found her wrist, lifted her, and everything was dark._

_Darkness lingered after that, heavy and suffocating, and she couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she breathe? Black smoke like claws dragged over her skin, leaving tears in its wake and she cried out as her body slowly tore apart, blood seeping from foreign wounds and leaving her empty. It was pain – pain that she couldn’t feel but could recognize – and her heart kept pounding faster and faster as if it were eager to rid her of this life. She screamed, twisting as her fingers dug into the sheets under her, her lungs fighting for air she couldn’t find, desperation rending a sob from her body. Why wasn’t someone helping her? Why why why why why-_

The pain stopped, everything stilling, and she was aware of the bed beneath her. She could hear Abelas breathing at her side, slow and even, and the rustle of sheets as he moved. Otherwise the villa was quiet. She made to press her hand to her face, to rub the sleep away, but to her great shock her arm didn’t respond. She tried again, but her body didn’t so much as quiver. Her heart began to speed slightly as panic settled, and as it did she felt a weight gather on her chest, holding her down. Something was holding her down! Her breath quickened, heart thundering as she tried to open her eyes, but even that seemed beyond her reach.

She was awake, she knew it – she had to be, this felt real, this didn’t feel like a dream, so why couldn’t she move? What was pinning her? _Why wasn’t Abelas reacting?_

The bed shifted as Abelas moved, and she wanted to scream at him. Something had to be there, something had to be on her, why else was it so hard to move? So hard to breathe? She managed to draw in a shaky breath, her fingers tense at her side, and she tried her best to lift herself into a sitting position. If she could just move, she could figure this out, she would be fine. Oh, Creators, what if she never figured it out? Tears burned behind her eyes and another shuddering breath ripped through her.

“… _Lethallan_?” Abelas asked hesitantly. His hand pressed to her shoulder and like that, she could move again.

Eyes snapping open, Isala lurched up as reality slammed into her like a boulder. She pressed her hands to her face, digging the heel of her palm against her eyes as if she could push the images away. Her shoulders shook as she tried to calm herself, repeating to herself that it was just a dream. Or at least, part of it had. What had followed, she wasn’t sure. That was terrifying.

Warm hands pressed to her shoulder, gently ushering her to relax back against the pillows, and when she finally pulled her hands from her face she looked up and saw Abelas watching her. There was a line of between his brows, his lips were turned in concern, and she thought she was going to be sick.

“Isala? _Tu tereva_?”

She shook her head, body shaking as she sucked in breathes, moving for the sake of moving. Creators, what had happened? “It felt like something was pinning me to the bed,” she said, swallowing when her voice had the texture of sandpaper. “I was aware, but I couldn’t move, and I –”

Again she shook her head, still trembling. “How long was I asleep?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Perhaps two hours,” he said. “Did you dream?”

She swallowed, running her hand down her face as if she could physically push the fear out of her. “Yes. At first it was nice, it was fine, but then – I don’t know. It was strange. Dark, like claws were tearing me apart.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Abelas lifted his hand, moving back into how (she assumed) he had sat before she had woke. Her mouth was dry and uncomfortable. She rubbed her eyes again, slowly pushing herself up. She didn’t know if she wanted to try sleeping again – not after that.

One thing was certain, though: the letters hadn’t lied. Whatever this thing in this house was, it caused night terrors. Isala had never had dreams that violent before – had never woken to find herself completely without control. There was no other explanation: it had to be the house.

“You should try and get back to sleep,” Abelas said. “We still have much of the night left to go.”

She shook her head, pushing her hair from her face with a shuddering sigh. “No. I can’t. You sleep instead. I’ll keep watch.”

Asking him to sleep while she couldn’t seemed selfish – as if she would rather he experience whatever the hell that had been instead of her – and was it wrong for her to think that? Just a little? She didn’t _want_ him to go through that, but she didn’t want herself to deal with that again either.

She looked to him, licking her lips before asking: “Can I touch you?”

He blinked. “What?” Her cheeks flushed slightly. That had been poor phrasing.

“I – when I was pinned, I wasn’t able to move until you touched me,” she said. “If we keep touching, then maybe it wont happen to you, and you can rest.”

For a moment she thought he was going to turn her down, but he nodded and she relaxed slightly. “Alright,” she breathed. “I’ll just…press into your side?”

Creators, this was awkward. But Abelas laid down on his back and she took that as permission. She moved, pressing herself to his side and resting her chin to his shoulder. She wasn’t worried about falling asleep – she felt wide awake after that hellish experience.

His arm wrapped around her waist as he settled in, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing. She kept as still as she could, her palm resting on his stomach while his slowly steadying heartbeat pounded under her ear. Eventually she closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing as she calmed herself down. Meditating was as close to sleeping as she was going to get after that.

Time passed slowly as Abelas slept, Isala silently counting his heartbeats. Every time she lost count (which happened frequently) she would begin again. When that got boring she composed music inside of her head, music that she would never be able to recreate or even compose (as she had no skill for musical composition whatsoever), but music that soothed her nonetheless. When she found her mind drifting she refocused, instead imagining stories in her head. Anything to keep herself awake.

After enough time had passed, she had convinced herself that the night would end without event. She wished she had been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for Dalish words/phrases that appear throughout work:
> 
> Ma nuvenin = as you wish  
> Ma serannas = my thanks  
> Tel’abelas = I’m not sorry  
> Garas = come  
> Ar = I, me  
> Nuvenin = want, need  
> Ma = my, mine, you  
> Isala = In need of  
> Hamin = rest/relax*  
> Ir = very/more  
> Sahlin = now/in this moment  
> Souveri = weary/tired  
> Tu = to make/to cause  
> Era seranna ma = excuse me  
> amapta-ma = fuck me*  
> ir amapta-maar = so fucking good*  
> Ma garas nin = come for me  
> ma nev = I'm close*  
> Tu tereva? = are you alright  
> La ma = and you  
> Dareth enera = Safe sleep (“sleep well”)
> 
> *these words are taken from/influenced by JRR Tolkien's elven languages - they aren't official Dragon Age words. I think I managed to mark all of them, but don't take these words as gospel!


	3. Chapter 3

The very first thing that tipped her off that something was wrong was the sudden heavy quality of the air. She opened her eyes, her cheek pressed against Abelas’ chest, and scanned the room slowly. Nothing else was there.

“Abelas?” she said softly, carefully pushing herself up. His eyes were open a moment later.

“What is it?” he asked, voice surprisingly clear considering he had just been asleep. Or she thought he had been asleep. Hadn’t he? Isala swallowed, pulling away from him to give him space to sit up.

“Can you feel that?” she glanced to him before looking back towards the doors. It was still dark out, but lighter. Closer to morning than when she’d first closed her eyes. How long had Abelas rested? Was it enough?

“Something is here,” he murmured. He rolled smoothly off the bed, wasting no time in grabbing his armor and pulling it on with quick, practiced movements. Isala followed his lead, keeping an eye on him as she did. He moved as if he weren’t injured – she had to trust that it was true. Her dresses were still damp, so she pushed them into her pack and opted to keep the borrowed tunic on over her mostly-dry leggings. Her hair had dried in a crimpled mess, but she didn’t have much time to worry about that.

There was a creaking outside of the door. Isala’s hands froze as she pulled on her boot, and Abelas’ attention focused on the entrance. The creaking got louder. Isala’s heart thundered in her throat, and she straightened to grab her staff from its perch.

As if that was a sign for whatever was in this home, a heavy weight slammed into the door. The wood fractured, splintering away and allowing Isala a glimpse of what waited beyond. Her breath caught and she reeled.

“Corpses,” Abelas grimaced, hands glowing with magic as he watched the emaciated corpse try to unintelligently shove it’s way into the room, battling with it’s uncooperative half-rotted limbs and the still-sturdy door that now trapped it in place.

“Corpses generally mean demons,” Isala said anxiously. Abelas moved quickly, pulling a dagger free and evading the creatures flailing limbs to slam his blade into the back of the corpses head, where neck met skull. It let out an unnatural screech, body convulsing before it collapsed. Abelas was unflinching as he withdrew his dagger, examining the body closely.

“I doubt whatever is here will let us leave now that it has found us,” Abelas said gravely. He looked to her. “Can you fight?”

She swallowed. “I – I know some, but I’ve used a lot of energy.”

Abelas scowled slightly, though it wasn’t quite as harsh as his earlier expressions. “You mean when you were healing me.”

Truly, she didn’t see why he was so perturbed by that. Isala huffed. “Well, yes. It was a bad wound. Aside from that, you’re clearly the better fighter of the two of us. It’s better to have you mostly healed than to rely on me.”

Sighing heavily, he turned his attention to dislodging the corpse from the door. It involved a lot of kicking. “What spells can you do?” he asked, sounding no more winded than before.

“Shield, dispel, mind blast, winters grasp, fade step,” she listed, ticking them off on her fingertips as she went. He looked at her.

“That’s it?” he asked. She bristled indignantly.

“I’m still learning!” she protested. “Besides, normally I’m not fighting. Normally I’m running.”

Abelas rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the door as he finally dislodged the corpse and kicked open the door. “If we run into any more corpses, just stay behind me,” he ordered.

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on trying to make friends with them,” she murmured under her breath. He heard her, though, and shot her a stern glare (to which she offered an innocent smile).

They vacated the room, Isala stepping cautiously over the corpse left behind them. It smelled. Her nose twisted up. The whole mansion smelled, actually.

Creators, she’d _made out_ with a veritable stranger in a _haunted house._ Had she lost her mind? Abelas was setting a path towards the door on the far end of the hall and her eyes unwittingly traveled down to his –

_Stop it. Do not stare at his butt. This is what got you into this mess._

Gripping the handle tightly, Abelas tried to open it. It didn’t budge. Isala sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “Alright. So we go back the way we came.”

“That is our only option,” he agreed, stepping back. Isala waited for him to retake the lead, slipping her staff onto her back and running her fingers through her hair once more, tugging knots free as they walked and working on redoing her braid. It was sloppily done, but better than leaving it as it was.

Absently, she noticed that Abelas’ hair was still in the braid she had crafted for him. It warmed her heart slightly. Besides, it looked good. Better than hers, at least, which just wasn’t fair.

The library was as they had left it, books sprawled half-open on tables, but this time the duo stopped to investigate. Isala fingered the spines of the many books, trying to piece together some idea of what was going on. One book left open on the table caught her eye. It was a book of superstitions, none of which seemed especially true, but several pages had small tabs sticking from between them. Whoever had read this last had thought them important, apparently. Isala turned to the first mark:

“ _How to prevent magic formation in the earliest stages_ ,” she read aloud. The sentence had her stomach churning uncomfortably. She looked up to Abelas, who had moved closer to see the text for himself.

“ _Infants and most small children will show no signs of magic…_ ” he read aloud. “ _Place leeches on each of the child's limbs. When done, burn the leeches. Be sure not to inhale the smoke. Afterwards, wrap the child's limbs in cloth blessed by a Chantry sister.”_

“This is rubbish,” Isala shook her head. “Magic doesn’t work like that. You can’t just will it away.”

He didn’t show any sign of hearing her – he continued reading, and this time his voice was grim: “ _A child showing signs of magic may be submerged in water until the breath is nearly lost. If magic is still weak within them, it will die before the child.”_

Isala’s irritation faded to horror, her throat constricting as she tried to swallow only to find her mouth far too dry. “Shemlen actually believed this?” she asked. “That’s – Creators, that’s barbaric.”

“Shorter lives only mean less time to reach understanding,” Abelas said, almost absently, as he pulled back from the book. “It’s no use reading any more. We need to keep moving.”

“But why were those specific pages bookmarked?” she asked, following him despite her questions. “That isn’t just light reading.”

“Do you really want to know?” Abelas asked, glancing down to her.

She didn’t. She stopped asking.

They worked their way down the library’s large hall and down further into the gallery, but instead of walking out the way they came the duo ventured around to the back of the staircase. The door at the back was ajar and covered in shadows, and when they stepped through no light sparked to existence in greeting. Isala didn’t know whether to be grateful or upset. It wasn’t too dark to see, however, so they pushed forward into what she could only assume had been the servants quarters.

“The whole house smells,” she mumbled. Despite it, it was a nice distraction from the books. It wasn’t quite so menacing.

“Decay,” Abelas answered helpfully, rooting through a nearby sack and pulling back empty handed. “Everything in the house is either dying or dead.”

“Including the people, apparently,” she grumbled. “If only we could say the same for whatever else lurked in here.”

“It’ll be dead soon enough,” he said with more confidence than she felt. He straightened, and though he was silent she caught the way his hand drifted to hover over his side. Her stomach twisted anxiously.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said tersely. “My armor is just bent out of shape.”

Meaning that when he moved, it aggravated his bruise. There was nothing she could do to help that. She bit her lip anxiously. What good was a healer if she couldn’t even heal him properly?

They moved into the next room wordlessly, and the lights flickered on again. Isala sighed. “Oh, of course. I was starting to think they would just let us wander around in the dark.”

“Do you always chatter when you’re anxious?” Abelas asked, stepping into the first door on the left. It was a kitchen – or something of the sort.

“Well, you aren’t talking,” she retorted. “If I didn’t, then we’d wander about in silence.”

“What’s wrong with silence?” he glanced to her, pausing in his inspection of the room.

“We’re in a haunted house,” she reiterated. “Everything is wrong with silence here.”

He shook his head, looking at the shelving. He frowned. “Not all of the food has gone bad yet.”

“If you’re suggesting we eat it, I’m going to have to ask to take a look at your head,” she said. “I’m not touching it.”

Abelas sighed, long and slow. “I wasn’t suggesting we eat the food,” he assured her. “It’s simply an anomaly.”

“This whole house is an anomaly,” she reminded him.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he murmured. They left the room, finding nothing more of note. Isala wasn’t sure what they were looking for, outside of corpses and demons. None of which sounded particularly appealing. Despite it all, those books still tickled at the back of her mind. It was hard to forget words such as that.

At the end of the hall there was yet another massive staircases – how many staircases did one home need? – and this led to a massive antechamber. Abelas paused for a moment. “There is an elven artifact nearby,” he announced, grim-faced.

“Here? In a shems house?” Isala asked. The duo began their ascent.

“A collector, no doubt,” he said, scorn clear in his tone. “The statues. The books. The paintings. Elven artifacts are just art to them.”

Isala bit down her lip, ire settling in her blood, but above all she supposed she should be grateful it was still in tact. She assumed, at least, that it was in tact. How else could Abelas sense it? That, of course, led to her questioning what ability made it so he could sense it to begin with, but she had just accepted that Abelas knew all sorts of strange magic that she had no where near the capacity to understand – she wasn’t going to question this new addition to his ensemble of skills. As he said, tucked away into a corner was an orb – clearly elven – and when his hand passed over it green magic encircled the device. Immediately, the evil presence of the house lessened.

“That will help,” he murmured under his breath as he stepped back. “But not enough. We need to continued.”

They passed through the large double doors at the end of the antechamber, and the sight laid out before them had her gasping. “By the Dread Wolf,” she breathed. “That’s _massive_.”

“A collector,” Abelas reiterated, eyes glued to the massive bones of a long-dead dragon, suspended above an echoing ballroom inhabited only by more – fortunately inanimate – looters.

Isala’s eyes were glued to the behemoth mounted on the ceiling, eyes soaking in every detail as she slowly walked along the ballroom balcony. Abelas moved ahead, inspecting everything he saw.

“I’m going to check the balconies,” he told her, looking back at her. “Stay here.”

“Alright,” she said, not even looking at him. She reached the end of the ballroom and braced her hands on the railings, smiling slightly. Abelas was gone, outside already, but it didn’t stop her from sighing. Dangerous though they were, she couldn’t den the creatures were marvelous. She could only imagine the image a living dragon would strike.

She linked her fingers and braced it on top of a small lion statue along the railings, but as she ducked to rest her chin against it the entire statuette leaned forward. The imbalance shocked her, pulling a yelp from her even as she jerked away, but her clumsiness was soon forgotten when a loud creaking filled the cavernous room and the tail of the dragon shifted, moving within reach of the railing.

It was then that she noticed the small paper secured to its tail, weighed down by an old key.

“Abelas, I found something,” she called, moving quickly around the room. She leaned over the rails to pluck the note from its place, and as she turned back Abelas was there, waiting for her reveal. “It was stuck on the dragon, along with a key.”

The key itself was old, but not rusted or broken, and attached to the note with a string. She pulled it free, holding it in her hand as she began reading, her stomach dropping again with every word: “ _There is no one left to remind me. I can’t trust the thoughts in my head. Some of them are hers. But these are mine: Key to the balcony. Do not use. It wont make you better. They lied. She lied._ ”

The handwriting was shaky, clearly troubled, and the words had her frowning.

“I saw something while I was outside,” Abelas said. “It was a glimmer – too hard to make out – but clearly magical.”

“I suppose that’s where we go, then,” she said. “Finally get an answer to this damn riddle.”

“I think we already know what the answer is,” he reminded her. “Someone in this family was born magical. Someone tried to stop their powers from manifesting.”

“That’s horrible,” Isala said softly, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go.”

Instead of mocking her, or ignoring her request, he simply nodded and set their course. They abandoned the upper level of the ballroom, and barely made it halfway through the antechamber before a collection of corpses ambled out in front of them, rusted swords hanging from rotted grips, and Isala’s staff was off her back and poised for fighting in an instant.

As he had earlier, Abelas moved with grace and speed, combining magic and the blades of his daggers with brutal efficiency. Two corpses focused their attacks on him, and yet he sidestepped every move. The corpses were clumsy, and it kept them from avoiding the brutal slices he offered them. Isala kept herself focused on the lingering corpse, who charged towards her with surprising speed. She leapt from the fray, frost enveloping her and carrying her forward through the fade, and as the ice passed through the corpse it let out a pained groan and lost his balance. Isala was now a safe distance away, and the corpse was momentarily frozen. She did not waste her opportunity; winters grasp flew from her fingertips, colliding with the corpse and freezing him through. At that moment Abelas emerged from his own battle, unwounded, and slammed his blades into the creature. It crumpled, shattering under the assault, and the battle was over.

Tucking her staff away, she sighed heavily. “Alright. I think we upset whatever is here.”

“It’s only going to get angrier the further we go,” he reminded her. Isala already felt tired. And hungry. And it wasn’t even daybreak. Creators, would this night ever end?

They moved quickly, with purpose that had been lacking before now that the end was in sight, and as they went further into the mansion the aura thickened around them once more. Corpses ambled into their path, more demanding than ever before – as if they sensed where the duo was headed. Isala and Abelas worked quickly, Abelas taking care of the majority of the creatures while Isala kept his back clear. She was getting tired by the time they reached the doors to the gardens, and Abelas was clearly unsettled. He was favoring one side, and she had to bite down the desire to ask him to let her heal him. She didn’t have the power to fix him and protect herself against whatever demon lurked. Though she trusted his skill, she wasn’t going to allow herself to be more of a burden than she already was.

“Are you alright?” Abelas asked, the final wave down and the last door standing menacingly at their front. Isala swallowed, but nodded.

“Just winded,” she assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

“The demon here is strong,” he cautioned.

She nodded. “I know. I’ll be fine.”

Abelas looked at her for a long moment, his eyes intense and calculating, and for a moment she half expected him to disagree with her, to decide that she was to just set out and wait here while he did the heavy lifting. Instead he just nodded once, turning his gaze back to the door. Isala relaxed, sighing softly as she straightened, and Abelas waited until she was at his side before reaching out and opening the door.

The Formal Gardens were gorgeous, wild and untamed from years of lack of cultivation, and steeped in ancient and powerful magic. Isala readied her staff, eyes focusing forward at the power’s epicenter.

An ancient, demanding roar split through the still air, and a creature pulled itself from the fade. The arcane horror was tall and skeletal, draped in moth-eaten and weathered robes that billowed as it hovered just off the ground, it’s lanky arms outstretched as magic swirled up around it. Isala was caught momentarily breathless, unable to not have some respect for the sheer power the creature wielded, but a mix of terror and trepidation quickly offset her awe. Around them more corpses pulled themselves from the grounds, the bodies of looters walking from the house and shambling their way closer. The elven duo were clearly outnumbered, at least five to one, and Isala wasn’t certain she could last the length of the battle. Corpses were easy prey, in small numbers, but the sheer scale of this fight – paired with the power of the demon at their front – didn’t bode well.

“Stay out of range,” Abelas murmured, daggers free and his peculiar brand of magic leaping over his form like ash mixed with blue lightening. “Can you keep them distracted?”

“Yes,” she said, even though she wasn’t certain that would come without some personal injury. “If you focus on the Arcane Horror, I can keep the corpses scattered.”

He nodded, taking her at her word, and as the corpses closed in Isala unleashed a mind blast that had the creatures falling back in ungainly heaps. The confusion gave Ableas an opening – he darted forward towards the Arcane Horror. As frightening as the creature was, it was slow, and Isala could only hope that Abelas’ speed gave him the advantage.

However, she couldn’t watch him fight and protect him at the same time – so despite all her instincts, she directed her attention solely to the corpses, whose attention centered on her. A few made to follow Abelas into the fray, but she refused to give them the luxury. Winters grasp slammed into them, freezing them in place midway to the elf, and Isala barely had a moment to re-center her magic and fade step away from the oncoming edge of a rusted blade. Ice cracked over the skin of the three corpses she passed through, slowing their limbs, and she watched from her peripherals as Abelas was tossed back. Abandoning the offensive for a moment she sent forth a shield, which wrapped protectively around him and cushioned his fall. The spell drained her, leaving her with only basic energy blasts to defend herself from the corpses, and within a few moments she was winded from evading the damaged blades.

Steadily the corpses encircled her, dark hallow eyes following her as she spun, power slamming into their limbs one by one. When one staggered, another moved forward in its place – it was a doomed pattern. Swallowing down her anxiety, Isala drew the creatures in closer. Her mana returned slightly and she reeled back, calling on the strongest power she had to capture the surrounding corpses. It would drain her far too quickly, but it would give her the advantage she needed. Snow and ice erupted from her staff and circled the gathering, battering the dead with harsh winds and sharp stabs of ice. The blizzard froze them through and she used it to escape the dangerous edges of their blades, hurrying from the circle and putting more distance between them.

Four of the corpses had fallen, and six remained. Abelas was still engaged with the Arcane Horror, magic and weapons steadily beating back the demons defenses. The demon was still strong, but wavering, and Isala knew she just had to hold out for a small while longer.

The blizzard faded, and her mana was still slow to recover as the remaining corpses broke free of their icy prison, groaning and turning to find their target. As Isala moved, blasts of power impacting with their hallow chests, she saw the gleam of something on the edge of her vision. She had no time to turn before the corpse archer acted, arrow flying and burying deep into her side.

Screaming, she stumbled back, hand pressing futilely to the skin beneath the would as if the pressure would stop the burning pain. Ice stumbled from her fingertips, freezing the rotted wood of the shaft, and with a quick motion she snapped the end off. The jolt ached, blood staining her borrowed tunic, but it kept her movement from being too hindered. So long as the shaft didn’t disconnect from the arrowhead, she would be fine.

“Isala!” Abelas called. Isala ignored him, turning her staff on her attackers just in time to stagger the ones closest to her. Each movement had her side aching, and her aim was suffering for it. There was no way she could accommodate her wound – no matter how she moved she ached, blood dribbling form her broken skin. Despite that, she knew that if she stopped, then she would most certainly be dead.

The shield she erected around herself deflected the next arrow, and her attention focused on keeping the corpses on the edge of her range. When she looked towards Abelas she saw he had abandoned the Arcane Horror to move to the fringes, eliminating the corpse archers that had taken up point.

Creators, she couldn’t even do this one job. How pathetic was that?

No more arrows moved towards her, but the four corpses left were relentless. Abelas had returned his attention to the Arcane Horror, and Isala was slowing dangerously. Another shield surrounded her, giving her a modicum of protection as she pressed her hand to her side and attempted to stem the bleeding. The healing energy was weak, but there, and eliminated the worst of the pain. That didn’t stop the risk, however. Each twist of her torso shifted the projectile under her skin, the jagged edges cutting deeper into her tissue. The risk of infection was growing, and she had no means to clean the wound properly.

The shield vanished and a corpse broke through, charging towards her, and she realized in an instant that there was no way she could deflect the blade in time.

Before she could consider her fate – before the sword could meet her flesh – an unearthly scream reverberated through the early morning air. The corpses around her paused, bodies staggering and crumbling as the magic that sustained them vanished. Isala turned, eyes falling on Abelas as he stood victorious against the fading demon. For a brief, heavenly moment, there was silence.

The euphoria of success faded as the pain returned, burning through her side, and she had to support herself against her staff as she pressed a trembling hand to her side. Abelas was there in an instant, supporting her weight against him.

“How bad is it?” he demanded. Isala shook her head, biting down on her lip. She didn’t trust herself to speak just then – not without crying. Abelas cursed, a word that sounded elven, but one she didn’t recognize, and he carefully lifted her into his arms. The movement agitated her wound, but she bit down hard on her lip to muffle her complaint. He attached her staff to his back as she pressed her hand back to her side, drawing on weak magic to try and help. She couldn’t do anything substantial until the arrow was removed, however. She had already moved too much.

“Bad,” she finally managed, closing her eyes and breathing deep through her nose.

“I’m taking you into the house,” he said. “You need to be treated.”

“You manage to save many people with arrows in their side?” she asked.

Silence. She cracked open an eye, saw the clenching of his jaw, and knew that the answer was no. She didn’t even have to ask, really. Arrows were the worst to deal with, and it had already been in her for far too long.

“I can do it on my own,” she offered as she moved forward, the dim lighting of the house completely unhelpful. “I’ve done this for others-”

“I can treat your wound,” he said. “I have done it before.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “Shit. Couldn’t it have hit my arm? Then we could just amputate.”

“We aren’t amputating anything,” he said sharply. He found the kitchens first and cleared off the table before carefully settling her there. Her jaw clenched as the arrow shifted again, the ragged edges cutting into her tissue. It took an immense amount of will to keep from crying out.

“Check my bag,” she said. “I have supplies there. Not much, though.”

Abelas moved, carefully pulling the satchel from her shoulder and rummaging through it. Bandages, some alcohol, and clean blades. It was better than nothing.

Those set aside he moved back to her, using the blade to carefully cut along the length of her shirt. This time, she had no measure of self-consciousness – she was far more concerned with the arrow still protruding from her side than whether or not she was thin enough.

“The blood loosens the arrowhead from the shaft,” she explained softly, mostly to give her a distraction. “If you move the shaft too much, it’ll disconnect. Then we’ll have to go looking for the damn thing. We don’t have supplies for surgery.”

“Then I will have to be careful,” Abelas said, confidence in his voice. She wished she could say she was as confident as he.

“You need to cut along the wound,” she instructed, staring at the ceiling and refusing to acknowledge that it was her body under the blade. She was used to healing others, not herself. Creators, she knew how much this bled. She knew how dangerous this was. How was she supposed to survive this? “Follow the shaft and it should take you to the head. You need to pull it out in one piece.”

That was if it wasn’t lodged in a bone, but she didn’t think it was. As far as she could tell it was trapped in tissue and muscle.

“Drink this,” Abelas ordered, handing her the alcohol. She didn’t need telling twice – she took a heavy drink, far more than she would ever casually do, and the lack of food in her stomach aided the alcohol as it worked quickly through her system. The pain dulled, though not completely, and when she handed the bottle back Abelas was holding the blade.

“Try not to move,” he ordered as he guided her arm out of the way. She kept it pinned above her head, hand clenched anxiously.

“Alright,” she breathed, closing her eyes tightly. “Alright. Do it.”

…

Isala was sobbing by the end of the procedure, her eyes screwed shut as she tried to keep from moving. The arrowhead was free, however, and sat innocently at her side while Abelas quickly worked to disinfect the area and bandage it. She was low on blood, light headed and dizzy, but the wound was clotting and her blood replenishing with the help of a weak healing potion that Abelas had found in his scavenging around the house. It would take weeks for the tissue to mend back together, and days before she could move without fear or pain.

He secured the final wrap, hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed over her skin. “There,” he said, exhaling heavily. “You should be fine.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, voice weak. She looked over to him, hand still awkwardly held over her head. She was too scared to lower it. “How bad was it?”

Abelas looked like he didn’t want to answer, but he did. “You moved too much. The wound is deeper than it should be.”

“It was move or die,” she said, and he nodded.

“We need to get you upstairs,” he said. “You can’t lay in the kitchen forever.”

“I wouldn’t mind laying here forever,” she argued. She didn’t want to think about how much it would hurt her to move – even if Abelas did all the real work. She sighed heavily at his unimpressed expression. “Fine. Fine. Just – give me more alcohol.”

He handed her the bottle and she took it, lifting herself only enough so that drinking didn’t accidentally turn into choking. When she pulled the bottle from her lips he took it, re-corked it, and placed it back into her satchel, which he now carried on his shoulder. Then he slipped his arms under her – mindful not to jolt her too horribly – and lifted her. She bit down hard on her lip – which had only just scabbed over from her previous abuse of it – and tasted blood.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he apologized. She shook her head.

“It’s fine,” she said, her breath hitching as dulled pain continued to throb in her side. “Just maybe go slow?”

Though he didn’t respond verbally, he did slow his pace, his grip gentle. The stairs were a nightmare, Abelas unable to keep from jolting her completely. Her hand gripped at his neck, nails biting into the skin, and he didn’t say a word.

Despite the severity of their situation, the house at least felt calmer now. They returned to the guest bedroom, where Abelas carefully laid her out on the bed before depositing their stuff once more. She was unable to do anything but watch as he blocked the door off with the dresser again, and as the alcohol worked through her system she steadily forgot the pain in her side and instead remembered she was wearing a tattered shirt. Her skin flushed in embarrassment and she threw her arm over her eyes, as if she could forget the entire situation.

“You should eat,” Abelas said. “There were some rations in your bag.”

“I’ll puke if I try,” she said.

To her surprise he didn’t argue, but he did set one of her ration packs on the nightstand at her bedside before moving back away and beginning the tedious process of unbuckling layers of armor. She watched him – her curiosity always got the best of her – and her cheeks flushed at the vision he presented. Creators, but he was gorgeous, and her body didn’t seem to care that she was essentially bedridden.

He moved back over to her, stripped to his leggings, and she saw his side. It looked bad – some wounds had reopened during his fight – and she immediately felt bad for complaining as she had. She reached out her hand to grab his, tugging him close enough so she could press her hand over his side. She, for once, was completely unsurprised when he caught her hand again and held it away.

“You need to save your energy,” he said. “Rest. You can heal me in a few hours.”

“You’re going to risk infection,” she argued, looking up at him with a stern frown. “At least let me minimize that risk. It will make me feel better.”

He sighed, and she expected an argument. Instead he released her hand and held his arm away from his body, barring his side to her. She let out a soft breath of relief as she reached for him again, pressing her palm to the delicate skin and letting the dredges of her magic bubble up to the surface. Skin knitted slowly under her touch, just enough to stop the bleeding, and purified the beginnings of what looked to be only a mild infection.

As it turned out, Abelas didn’t have to worry about her accidentally overextending herself – her hand dropped within moments as the last of her strength left her. Her eyes closed and she breathed slowly, trying to think clearly past the haze of alcohol, and she was only started from her attempts as she felt his hand brush gently along the inside of her wrist  - a surprisingly tender display.

“Rest,” he repeated himself. “I will keep guard. Now, there is no aura to keep looters at bay.”

“Not many shem move through the forests,” she said softly. “We’ll be fine for the day.”

He didn’t argue, but she knew he didn’t agree. By now she had come to realize that his safety was not something he took lightly – and hers, it seemed, had moved up slightly on his list of priorities.

“Sleep, lethallan,” he ordered. “You will heal faster.”

Isala gave a token grumble of dissent before sighing and letting her eyes close.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for Dalish words/phrases that appear throughout work:
> 
> Ma nuvenin = as you wish  
> Ma serannas = my thanks  
> Tel’abelas = I’m not sorry  
> Garas = come  
> Ar = I, me  
> Nuvenin = want, need  
> Ma = my, mine, you  
> Isala = In need of  
> Hamin = rest/relax*  
> Ir = very/more  
> Sahlin = now/in this moment  
> Souveri = weary/tired  
> Tu = to make/to cause  
> Era seranna ma = excuse me  
> amapta-ma = fuck me*  
> ir amapta-maar = so fucking good*  
> Ma garas nin = come for me  
> ma nev = I'm close*  
> Tu tereva? = are you alright  
> La ma = and you  
> Dareth enera = Safe sleep (“sleep well”)
> 
> *these words are taken from/influenced by JRR Tolkien's elven languages - they aren't official Dragon Age words. I think I managed to mark all of them, but don't take these words as gospel!


	4. Chapter 4

When Isala awoke next, it was dark out again – the dim light of the moon filtered through the rooms windows, but otherwise the room was lit only by the dimly glowing and steadily shrinking candles. She lifted her hand to rub at her face, grimacing as her side throbbed. It was not so bad as it had been, but it was still painful.

It was only after a minute of silence that she realized she was alone in the room. Fear stole through her. Had Abelas left her? While he didn’t owe her anything, she was in no state to take care of herself. Unless he helped – at least for a small while longer – she was as good as dead.

Carefully, she pushed herself into a sitting position. As her back rested against the headboard the half-ruined door opened and Abelas returned, a half-empty sack clutched in his hand. He looked at her with a frown. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Where were you?”

Isala blanched. Creators, that wasn’t what she wanted to ask. If he seemed perturbed by her sudden clinginess he didn’t say – he approached her, setting the sack beside her on the bed. Curious, she reached to rifle through as Abelas answered her: “I went to see if the shem left anything useful behind,” he said. “There are some more healing potions. One of the looters had a lyrium potion.”

She immediately felt guilty for doubting him. She picked up the red liquid, watching it slosh within the flask. “Thank you,” she said softly, before glancing up at him. “How is your side?”

“Fine,” he said. He was staring at the stretch of skin revealed by the torn shirt – at the bandage underneath, she knew, but it still had her neck flushing. “You’ll need to change bandages soon. These are bled through.”

True to his word, when she looked down the bandages wrapped around her were stained pink and red. “I’m going to run out of supplies at this rate,” she mourned, even as tentative fingers moved to test the edges of her wound. It was a bad idea, if the pain said anything, but she figured it could have been worse. Sleeping all day accelerated her healing at the least, and the healing potions he had found would keep the risk of infection at bay – if one hadn’t already set in. “Can you help me with this?” she asked.

He knelt beside her on the bed without question, brushing her shirt out of the way to find the bandages edges. The first few wraps went fine, without too much pain, but as they reached the final loop there was some resistance. Isala closed her eyes. “Fenhedis,” she cursed. “Just – be careful.”

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he murmured his apology, even as he carefully tore the bandage from her side. She cried out, biting hard on her chapped and scabbed lip, and felt as blood bubbled up from the wound once more. He tossed the blood stained bandages into the emptied sack before carefully inspecting her side. Isala kept her eyes firmly focused on the ceiling, afraid of what she might see if she looked to her side. His silence didn’t bode well.

“What does it look like?” she asked.

“It’s swelling,” he admitted, and she closed her eyes tightly. Of course. “We should wash it.”

“Creators, just stab me instead,” she groaned melodramatically. He looked at her, completely displeased, and she sighed again. “Fine – fine. Get me into the washroom. We can clean it there.”

Obediently he lifted her, mindful to keep her wounded side pointed away from him, and grabbed up her satchel to relocate to the washroom. He set her on her feet by the wall, and she leaned against it for support as he again filled the tub with water. He returned to her and she had to shove her insecurities aside once more. Carefully, with his help, she pulled off the tattered remains of her tunic and tossed it aside before moving to lean against the washtub.

For not the first time, Isala was grateful for Abelas’ apparent professionalism. His attention was focused wholly on the puncture, one of her many washrags in his hand as he soaked it and lathered it with soap. The pain was stark when he finally began cleaning the wound, but she preferred that to dying of infection. It was clear he had done this before – she didn’t have to tell him how to clean the wound or anything.

The water in the tub was a grisly pink once he was done, and she was exhausted even though she had only just woke. He carefully patted her dry before pulling more bandages from her pack, handing her a potion. “Drink this,” he ordered.

She did, the thick medicinal taste of the healing potion coating her throat uncomfortably, but the pain dulled and the bleeding of the re-opened wound slowed. He used that time to apply a salve to her, carefully making sure to get the worst of the wound before bandaging her up.

“We’ll have to change these again soon,” he cautioned her. “The house doesn’t have many supplies we can use, however.”

“So you’re saying we should leave,” she looked to him.

“We’re going to run out of supplies eventually,” he said. “I explored the perimeter. The house itself is structurally sound – the only entrance is the front doors, and the walls are strong. However, the protection it offers doesn’t mean much when you consider what it’s missing. You would have better luck outside.”

“There are dalish camps in the deepest parts of the forest,” she said, noting the way his face immediately closed off with the mention of her clansmen. “They’ll have supplies, medicine. They would be willing to help.”

“If the infection worsens, then I will take you to them,” he said. The lack of ‘we’ had her stomach squirming anxiously. “For now, you should keep resting.”

“Help me back to the room?” she asked. He nodded, cleaning up her supplies before hooking her arm around his shoulders. He supported her weight with ease as they shuffled back down the hall to their broken door, setting her on the edge of the mattress before moving to re-secure their hide out. As he worked Isala slowly moved further onto the bed, wincing and trying to keep from jostling her wound any more than necessary. Creators, she missed her shirt. It was cold.

Hunger hit her like a sledgehammer as Abelas seemed to busy himself with their limited supplies, organizing it and taking stock. She had forgotten about her empty stomach – apparently, getting shot was one way to curb an appetite. She spotted one of her ration packs by the bed, wrapped in linens to keep it clean, and she grabbed it. Salted pork. The pieces of jerky weren’t particularly filling, but they finally put something in her stomach. As she ate the weariness faded, energy replenishing, and as her body absorbed the nutrients she felt the subtle buzz of magic under her skin. It was a good sign – the faster her magic returned, the faster she could heal herself. Then they could save their potions for something more important.

With the first serving of jerky devoured, Isala set the linens aside and turned her attention to the bed. She didn’t really want to sleep _in_ the bed – that felt weird, too personal – but there was no way she was going to be able to put on a shirt without possibly tearing her side open again on accident. And she _was_ cold – it wasn’t just her own insecurities that made her want to curl up and hide, though she would be lying if she said that wasn’t a part of her need for cover. With a resigned huff she reached under the pillow, grabbing the edge of the sheets and pulling them down. She pulled them down on the side next to her and shifted over instead of trying to deal with lifting her hips and getting the blankets out from directly under her. She kicked her feet under the sheets, laying back and pulling them up to her chin.

This was weird, vaguely uncomfortable, but it was also warm. She had never slept in sheets so soft before, regardless of their age, and she gave a soft sigh as her body unwittingly sank into the bed. Creators, did all humans have beds so soft?

“For someone who is resting, you are making a lot of noise,” Abelas observed. She lifted her head, holding the sheets from blocking her view, and sent him an unamused look.

“Says the man who wasn’t shot with an arrow,” she retorted. “Stay on your side of the room.”

To her great surprise, he laughed. It was under his breath, barely a sound at all, but she had figured out the small range of his expressions – laughing wasn’t something he did. Her brow jerked up and she watched him. He didn’t seem to show any particular reaction to her again – his attention was still on their bags. Isala grumbled, shifting back under her blanket and staring at the ceiling. Though she wasn’t particularly tired – she had just woke – she knew that she needed to rest. There wasn’t much available for her to distract herself, though, and inevitably the softness and heat of the bed coaxed her into a light sleep.

Abelas woke her several times through the night, and they would relocate to the washroom to change her bandages and apply more of the healing salve to the incision. The bonus of the salve was that it numbed her skin slightly, and so when the morning finally broke she was able to move without crying and tearing the scabs on her lip open. She considered that an extreme bonus.

As for Abelas, she had no idea if he’d rested or not. She knew he passed the day looting through the house, taking anything of worth – including several expensive looking trinkets he could no doubt sell for a handful of gold. She felt bad about stealing from the home, but at the same time no one else was going to use it. And besides, they needed it.

“How is your side?” she asked as she slowly sat up, watching Abelas as he packed away her satchel with his loot. Their loot? She didn’t know.

“It’s healed,” he assured her. She pursed her lips, silent for a moment.

“Can I see?” she asked.

Instead of protesting – as she half expected him to do – he stood and moved towards her before pulling up his tunic. True to his word, the worst of it was healed over. There was still nasty bruising around the worst of it, but bruises wouldn’t kill him. She smiled,, carefully tracing the edges of the bruise with her fingertips, pleased with her handiwork. “Good,” she said, looking up at him. “I would recommend not getting in any more fights with giants, though. You wont always have a healer to nag you about it.”

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her hand away from himself – though she hadn’t been touching him – and her heart dropped for an instant. When he didn’t released her, however, her concern that she’d crossed a line turned into confusion. He was looking at her with an unreadable expression, the only hint of emotion in the set of his lips, and even then she couldn’t determine what it meant.

“Can you walk?” he finally asked, dropping her wrist. “Your things are together. There is an Inquisition camp across the river. We can reach it quickly, and they might be willing to help you heal.”

“How do you know?” she asked, first and foremost.

“When you slept, I left the house to scout the area,” he explained. “I was back before you woke.”

She didn’t know how she felt about apparently being left alone in an up-until-recently haunted house. Isala didn’t say anything either way – he wasn’t bound to stay here. He could do as he pleased. The fact that he stayed at all was still surprising to her.

“Alright,” she said, unsure what else to say. Creators, why was she always so unsure around him? He’d had his hand between her legs and she still had no idea what he thought of her – if he found her attractive, if she was annoying, _anything_. “I need my dress.”

He moved to her bag, pulling the familiar garment from the pack and offering it to her. Skin flushed with embarrassment, she averted her eyes for a moment. “You might need to help,” she said. “I can’t – moving this arm hurts.”

To her great relief, Abelas didn’t complain. He helped her get the sleeve of her dress over her bad arm and over her head, and then helped her to her feet so she could smooth it around her thighs. She was caught off guard, however, when he reached around her and secured her dress with her belt – she had been planning on going without, as putting it on herself would involve too much twisting. He was careful as he situated it low on her waist, the white of the leather a stark contrast to her dress. Her skin flushed and her heart thundered as his fingers ran under the edge of her belt, checking to make sure it hadn’t twisted. The touch was gentle, and the brush of his fingers over her hips had her body reacting far too eagerly. Apparently, even an arrow to the side couldn’t keep her libido under control. Creators, she was ridiculous.

She wasn’t certain if she imagined the way his fingers lingered against her – his eyes moved up to meet hers, and there was a long moment of silence. On a whim, she moved to her tiptoes, tenderly pressing her lips to his chin. It was meant to follow with a thanks, but instead his hand found her waist and he moved, locking their lips together. She was sure it was horrible – her lips were chapped and scabbed while his were still soft, but if he minded he didn’t say. At least, he showed no signs of minding – his hand was gentle against the small of her back, his lips reverent as they teased hers.

Things were going well, up until she stupidly moved to slip her arms around his shoulders. Pain laced up her side and she gave a small cry, jerking her arm back into place. The kiss ended there, Abelas pulling away and pressing his hand back to her side, concern furrowing his brows.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Slightly breathless – from the pain and the kiss – she nodded. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he retorted. She was left slightly speechless as he turned, picking her pack up and shouldering it himself. He turned to look back at her and she averted her eyes, focusing on the fringe at the edge of her dress. “If you need to stop, ask,” he said.

“Alright,” she agreed.

Abelas moved from the room and she followed, taking her staff from its resting place as she passed. She didn’t bother securing it to her back, instead letting it act as extra support. It came in handy when they faced off against the libraries staircase, and she noted a bit happily that Abelas had taken to hovering at her side while she slowly descended.

Before that kiss, she had thought she had a good grasp on what their relationship was – two elves, stuck in a house together, trying to survive the night. Tension was high. Sometimes, that led to people putting their hands down each others pants. That didn’t mean that there was anything more too it. She still didn’t think there was – not emotionally. She knew little about him, and he knew just as much about her. Emotions simply weren’t there. All they had was attraction. But creators, was it a lot of attraction. At least, it was on her end. The way he kissed her, though, made her think she had missed something. There was a tenderness there, something about the way he touched her, and though it was likely that he was just intense in all things, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was something more. Had she done something to endear her to him? She didn’t think so. In fact, he seemed mostly irritated with her constant attempts at healing him.

Giving a heavy sigh, Isala resigned herself to the knowledge that she simply wouldn’t know Abelas until he let her know him.

Isala made it out of the chateau without agitating her wound beyond the unavoidable, and that was enough for her to consider it a win. They were forced to walk at a dreadfully slow pace, but Abelas didn’t complain, so she assumed that meant he didn’t mind.

When they passed through the gates of the mansion she heard the rustling of nearby foliage; a moment later, Asha emerged and approached Isala with familiar grace. Relief shot through Isala in an instant – relief she hadn’t realized she needed – and she gently ran her hand down the halla’s neck.

“They waited for you,” Abelas observed. Isala smiled and nodded.

“They did,” she agreed. She looked to him. “You can give them my pack. They don’t mind carrying it.”

For a moment, with the way Asha was staring at Abelas, Isala was worried that the halla would actively refuse to let Abelas approach them. However, after as the elf approached – slowly and respectfully – Asha simply turned and let Abelas situate the satchel on their back.

Rejoined by her faithful companion, the trio set off down the cobblestone path marking the way from the Chateau to the nearby river. Isala had passed nearby several times in her wanderings through the Emerald Graves, but she never ventured deep within the area – it was safer to avoid as many people as possible. However, the Inquisition camp had to be a recent addition; Isala didn’t remember it being there the week before, and she was usually very good at mapping her surroundings. She had to be, if she wanted to make it through the untamed Graves unharmed. She knew too many stories of people getting lost, losing their way and running into creatures such as giants, or great bears, or demons (considering the recent rifts in the fade littering the area). The fade rifts were steadily disappearing, however, for which she was grateful. She’d had the unfortunate luck of being camped near where one opened when the whole mess had started, and it had taken a bit of luck and some liberally used fade steps to get her away from the demons in one piece.

However, though the Inquisition’s presence made her anxious, she couldn’t deny that their impact had been largely positive. She could move around without constantly checking over her shoulder for rifts, at the least, and they’d taken care of the worst of the Freemen that haunted the forest like a plague; but just because she appreciated the results of their presence didn’t mean she wanted anything to do with them, either.

They reached the bridge, and Asha immediately began to retreat. Their eyes were ahead, focused on the approaching view of the Inquisitions campsite. Isala knew that the halla would likely prefer to stay away from so many shem, but she hated that they would have to separate so soon after reuniting. Asha was their own being, however, and Isala wasn’t about to force them to follow where they would clearly be uncomfortable. She sighed and stopped to lift her satchel from their back. Abelas was there in an instant, taking the satchel for her, and though part of Isala was grateful for his intervention, the other part was irritated that she suddenly could do nothing for herself. It wasn’t irritation at him, exactly – he was doing what he thought was best to keep her from further injuring herself, just as she had done two days previous – but he was an easy target.

“Be safe, Asha,” Isala said, giving the halla a quick pat before watching them gallop off. They’d no doubt find Isala once their business at the campsite was finished.

“We don’t have much further,” Abelas said. When she looked to him she found he wasn’t looking at her – he was staring at the camp, a strange expression on his face. Part of her wanted to ask questions – why the camp was so interesting, why he seemed so reticent to approach when it had been his idea – but she kept silent. Abelas shook his head and began moving once more, so she followed.

The Inquisition troops noticed their approach once the duo crossed the river. When their course didn’t shift, a few troops began to stand and mutter amongst themselves. Isala had never felt so anxious in her life.

“Oh, Creators, this was a horrible idea,” she breathed, her heart thundering. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to small talk. What do shem even talk about? I don’t know their politics, their art, their history – creators, this was a horrible idea.”

“Just be quiet,” Abelas advised her. “We are only here to get you healed, and to perhaps trade. That’s it.”

“Do you think they’ll trade?” she asked, looking to him. He proved a nice distraction from the steadily approaching camp.

“They need resources,” he said reasonably. “If they don’t, then they will know someone who can.”

It wasn’t until they reached the outskirts of the camp that one of the officers approached, dark eyes glancing between the two elves. “What business do you have here?” they asked.

“My companion is injured,” Abelas said, his voice coarse but not rude. “We’ve run out of supplies to help her heal. If there was any way you could help, it would be appreciated.”

Isala could tell the human had questions – such as, why they didn’t go to a dalish camp – but to her great relief, they didn’t ask. The held their hand up, saying “Wait here for a moment,” before turning and moving towards another officer. Their superior? Isala didn’t know. The other officer looked towards them as the situation was explained, giving them considering looks, before nodding. She took that as a good sign.

The superior officer approached, her hair pulled back in a severe bun that countered the almost childish tone of their face. Isala noticed the way her eyes lingered on her staff, and she prayed it wouldn’t be a problem. “You came at a good time,” she said, glancing between the two. The Fereldan accent was unexpected. “I’m Helena. I’m in charge of this camp.” Her eyes zeroed in on Isala before the elf could offer a greating in return. “Where are you injured?”

Automatically, her hand raised slightly to press to her side. “A corpse archer got me,” she explained. Helena gave her a sympathetic look – clearly, she was acquainted of the pain that came with an arrow-inflicted wound. Isala was about to explain why she didn’t just heal it herself, but anxiety stopped her short. Surely they didn’t need that much information. Explaining the nuances of magical drainage seemed way too complicated, and was way more information that the Inquisition soldier needed.

“Head to the tent over there,” Helena said, nodding towards the tent in question. “We’ll get you checked out.”

* * *

 

By the end of the ordeal, Isala was in significantly less pain. The healer – a mage formerly from the Fereldan’s circle tower, as he had explained – had been able to mend the worst of the wound. The lurking infection had also been taken care of, though the healer had been quick to alert her – quite needlessly – that if she let it get dirty then it would be for nothing. She knew all of this, of course, but at that point she simply didn’t want to say anything else. She was exhausted, surrounded by unfamiliar shems, and still in pain. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, but it was still discomforting.

“Do you two have somewhere to stay tonight?” Helena asked. Isala immediately looked to Abelas for his answer.

“No,” he said. “But we will manage. _Ma serannas_.”

“If you’re sure,” Helena said slowly, casting a look to Isala’s side with a small amount of concern. “Stay safe out there. There have been reports of rifts nearby.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Isala sighed under her breath, running her hand over her face. She realized how rude she sounded and was quick to add: “Thank you for the warning.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem for long,” Helena assured them, unaffected by Isala’s words. “The Inquisitor will get it all sorted.”

That seemed to snap Abelas into action – he straightened, placing his hand at the small of Isala’s back, and carefully nudged her towards the edge of camp. “Thank you again for your assistance,” he said.

“Travel safe,” Helena said. Isala barely had a chance to offer thanks before Abelas was guiding her from the camp, attention set forward.

Once they were out of range, she looked up at him and asked: “Why were you so eager to leave?”

“I do not want to be there when the Inquisitor arrives,” he said shortly. He glanced up. The sun was beginning to set – but Isala hardly cared about that.

“You’ve know of the Inquisitor?” she asked. “Have you met?”

“Once,” Abelas’ voice was short. “I do not want to talk about it.”

There was no way his words would temper her curiosity, but regardless of her desires she forced herself to quiet. “Where are we staying tonight?” she asked instead. He still had her bag, and he’d made no move to depart or act in any way as if they would be parting ways. She assumed that meant he had no immediate plans to do so. It wasn’t so hard to believe – with night falling, it would be better to share a camp. The problem was that her tent was far to small to accommodate both of them comfortably.

“For the night, we’ll stay wherever is safe,” he said, his tone final.

“My tent is small,” she pointed out. “It might fit us both, but, it might be better to find somewhere with cover.”

“Do you know of any place close enough?” he looked to her then, ignoring Asha as the halla stepped into their path and trotted alongside them.

“There’s the outcropping,” Isala offered, “but that is in the opposite direction, and it involves some climbing.” Climbing she couldn’t do with her side as it was. Abelas wordlessly placed her pack on Asha’s back as he considered.

“Where else?” he asked. Isala sighed as she considered, worrying her lip.

“Well, you could always make a lean-to,” she suggested, “but finding small enough branches might be difficult. Deeper in the forest you’ll get more coverage, but you’ll also get more bears and giants. The same for if we camp near the river – in a large group, the animals will stay away, but the two of us along will attract attention.”

There was a long moment where Abelas considered, and Isala took to watching her toes while she waited. Truthfully, after all that had happened, she would be fine to do whatever it was he recommended. He was an intelligent man, and with some surprise she realized that there was no one else she trusted quite so explicitly. Trust was a funny thing – especially when forged in the midst of a shared crisis.

“Does that work with you?”

Isala’s attention jumped up and, embarrassed, she realized he had answered her and she’d ignored him. “What? Sorry, I was distracted,” she apologized, pushing her fingers through her hair and keeping it back from her pinkened face.

“I said we should simply share the tent,” Abelas said, watching her expression closely. “It’s safest for now.”

“Alright,” she agreed. As if they had been listening, Asha turned so that the pack – and the tent – was presented to them. Isala automatically made to reach for it but Abelas was already there. He left her standing by the halla as he set to work, erecting the tent with ease that would make anyone believe that he had handled it numerous times before. True to her word the tent was small, coming up only to the center of Abelas’ chest – it wasn’t made for more than protection, and was long enough only to suit the height of an elf, or perhaps a dwarf if the width didn’t pose discouraging.

“I’ll enter first,” Abelas instructed, removing the outer layers of armor and leaving himself in his leggings and tunic. “So I can help you settle.”

“Alright,” Isala agreed. She sat her staff beside Asha, who had already claimed a spot parallel to the tent, and hesitated before pulling off her belt and draping it over her bag, her leather boots going next. Hesitant fingers curled in her dress and she bit her lip more firmly, glancing between the ajar tent flap and the shadowed glimpse of Abelas’ waitinf form.

“Isala?” he called.

Throwing caution to the wind, she tugged her dress over her head and left herself in her breast bindings, bandages, and leggings. The dress was folded quickly and she murmured an embarrassed response as she pulled out two stolen pillows from the villa and slipped through the entrance.

Abelas was sitting up, angled to the side and reaching for her. He didn’t complain when she braced herself on his shoulder or comment on her undress, instead simply supporting her so that as she laid on her good side she didn’t jostle the bad. She offered one pillow to him, and he raised his brow. Her neck burned. “I was only going to take one, but I thought you might want one.”

Instead of pressing, thankfully, he accepted the pillow and placed it on the tent floor. She did the same as he reached for the blanket and tossed it over them.

Suddenly, she was left with the heat of his body nestled against hers from chest to thigh, and only the sounds of the rousing nightlife to detract from it. Her heart pattered uselessly in her breast and her gaze dared to dart up to his face, hoping to read some sort of insight from his expression. He was silent, gaze blank on the tent wall as he thought, and Isala allowed herself to admire him anew. How could she not? This close, Creators, but he was all she could think about.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” he agreed. His gaze shifted and met hers, and there was something she might call a smile curling at the corners of his lips – but she wondered if she had simply imagined the expression entirely. “Rest, lethallan. Your body needs it.”

Instead of simply looking away, his arm shifted and his palm pressed between her shoulders to coax her closer. With a small sigh she obliged, pressing her face to his chest and breathing in the scent of moss and stone that never seemed to fade – and it was with his scent in her nose that she fell asleep to gentle dreams of sunlight filtering through ancient trees and stone surrounded by gnarled roots.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so, so, so long. Life has been really weird for me. Good news though, is there's only one chapter left!

**Author's Note:**

> Translation for Dalish words/phrases that appear throughout work:
> 
> Ma nuvenin = as you wish  
> Ma serannas = my thanks  
> Tel’abelas = I’m not sorry  
> Garas = come  
> Ar = I, me  
> Nuvenin = want, need  
> Ma = my, mine, you  
> Isala = In need of  
> Hamin = rest/relax*  
> Ir = very/more  
> Sahlin = now/in this moment  
> Souveri = weary/tired  
> Tu = to make/to cause  
> Era seranna ma = excuse me  
> amapta-ma = fuck me*  
> ir amapta-maar = so fucking good*  
> Ma garas nin = come for me  
> ma nev = I'm close*  
> Tu tereva? = are you alright  
> La ma = and you  
> Dareth enera = Safe sleep (“sleep well”)
> 
> *these words are taken from/influenced by JRR Tolkien's elven languages - they aren't official Dragon Age words. I think I managed to mark all of them, but don't take these words as gospel!


End file.
